


I Need Some Meaning I Can Memorize

by Ninyaaaaaaah



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Aftercare, Blood, Choking, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Fighting, Hand Jobs, High Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Marijuana, Modern Era, NSFW, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Blow Jobs, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Rock band AU?, Rough Sex, Thaurens, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomit, breath play, dub con, kind of?, m/m - Freeform, please keep an eye on these i will be updating, this fic is a MESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-10 03:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12903120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninyaaaaaaah/pseuds/Ninyaaaaaaah
Summary: John Laurens sits at the bar, nursing an open wound.John Laurens follows Thomas Jefferson home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi.
> 
> This fic is a mess of unhealthy behaviours and unhealthy coping mechanisms and fun things like that. Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> Title is from "Lover I Don't Have To Love" by Bright Eyes, and that song was the inspiration for this entire fic

John Laurens sits at the bar, nursing a jack and coke.

On the outside, he is all bronze skin and freckles, all big laugh, all light heart.

John Laurens sits at the bar, nursing an open wound.

On the inside, he is all bruise and ache, all heavy bones, all grabbing hands that can’t let go. He knows it’s long over, he always knew it would be.

Oh, he knows.

But how can he not cling to any shred of tenderness he’s been shown?

Across the bar, Eliza is in Alex’s arms, and she is as bright as the sun, all smile, all laugh, all glossy black hair and pink skirt flaring out when he spins her to the music.

Next to her, Alex is all smile, all laugh, and he shines bright in the reflection of her, and every line of his body is loose and relaxed with easy contentment.

He never looked like that with John.

He never looked at John like that, like John was the sun in the sky, like John was the air in his lungs, like John was the first kiss of pink on the horizon at the end of a long night.

Because John never was.

John knows. Oh, he knows.

He takes a sip of his jack and coke, sticky sweet coating his tongue. Tries not to watch Alex and Eliza on the dance floor. Tries not to watch Angelica and Peggy spin each other around, laughing uproariously, or Maria, talking quiet in a corner with Hercules, her chin tipped up, softness in all the curved lines of her.

Looks, instead, at the ice melting in his glass. Swirls it.

Looks, instead, up at the stage in the dark lit, dingy bar. Can’t help but smile in amusement at Lafayette, sliding across the stage on his knees, ridiculously tight, black leather pants and an electric guitar, his head thrown back, million watt smile on his face as he plays the guitar like a lover.

John had laughed and laughed when Lafayette told him. _I See France_. A rock band. With Thomas Jefferson, of all people.

Has to admit, it works.

John Adams is on drums, Aaron Burr on bass, but neither of them have a hope of holding a candle to the electric energy of Lafayette and Jefferson.

Lafayette’s energy is insane, but Jefferson…

John squints a little and tilts his head. Licks Jack Daniels and coke off his lips. Watches Jefferson.

Jefferson shines.

He sings better than John would have guessed, all throaty growl, all sweat, all heat.

John tears his gaze away. Swallows the rest of his drink in one go and shoves the empty glass across the bar. Can’t believe he was just looking at Jefferson like that, thinking about Jefferson like that.

At the merch table by the door, James Madison looks bored, resigned, like an indulgent parent waiting for his child at the park. He watches the show with what appears to be utmost indifference.

John shakes his head. Turns back to the bar and raises his fresh drink to his lips. Closes his eyes, wishes he was anywhere but here.

Starts to get that familiar feeling in his bones, like he wants to break something, like he wants that something to be himself. Everything feels tight and hot and close, and he can feel his fist curling in his lap, knuckles white around nothing, aching for touch. Grits his teeth and wishes they were closing on skin, on flesh, on beating heart. Wants to taste iron and dirt in his mouth, wants grit and gravel and pain blooming bright, waking him up, sending breath sharp in his lungs to make him feel alive.

Anything but this sluggish numbness.

Anything but this feeling that he’s barely real at all, that no one would notice if he was here or not.

Only came because Lafayette begged and pleaded and even went so far as to get down on his knees in the kitchen of the apartment they share, and promise to do anything, _anything_ to make it up to him, suggestive lilt to his bright voice. John almost took him up on it, that afternoon in the sun in their stark white kitchen, but no. He’s frightened of Adrienne, even though Lafayette swears she doesn’t mind when she’s out of town, swears it works both ways and it keeps their engagement healthy. Besides that… it would be messy. It would be complicated.

He has enough of that to go around.

But he still shows, because Lafayette’s a good friend and deserves something back from John, because he doesn’t want to sulk, because anything is better than sitting at home alone, and everyone is coming back there after anyways to drown the rest of the night in the gold glitter of giddy high and champagne bubbles.

John looks at Alex again, and he doesn’t love him anymore, no. That ended long ago. But it still hurts in a peculiar way, to see him happy, to see him shining, and he’s a terrible friend for feeling this way, but he can’t help it. Can’t help but feel jealous and bitter that Alex crawled out of their trail of sharp teeth, bruises, and sharper words and is standing there basking in Eliza’s glow while John sits at the bar alone and drinks because he doesn’t want to think anymore.

He sighs, and looks at the stage again, music so loud he can barely hear his own thoughts anymore.

Lafayette catches his eye and winks. Blows him a kiss.

John shakes his head a little, can’t help but smile a little smile.

It helps.

He still downs the rest of his drink in one big swallow. He stands up, and he sways, and it’s like, okay, he should probably stop drinking now, but the thing is, he can still _think_. He can still _feel_ , so that’s a problem. 

He leans across the bar, and the bartender raises her eyebrows at him. Shakes her head like she knows him, like she knows his limits, what he’s trying to do here, what he _needs_. 

John tries his flirtiest smile, knows it looks put on and doesn’t much care. Tries to reach out and brush her arm with his fingers because he heard somewhere that touching people makes them let their guard down, fosters intimacy- however false and temporary. 

She just shakes her head, moves her arm away before he can touch her and now he’s just rubbing his fingers on the sticky, wet bar top and that isn’t what he wanted at all. 

“You’re cut off, go home!” She shouts over the music. 

John stares at her, but she’s used to drunk assholes like him, and she pours him a glass of water instead and pushes it across the bar to him. 

John might be an asshole, but he’s not a _complete_ asshole, so he takes the water because he knows she’s right, and drinks it. Cool, clear, brings him that much closer to feeling like he’s sober and no matter if the bartender is right or if she’s wrong, that’s the last thing John wants. 

He pushes the glass back across the wet bar and man, he loves Lafayette, but he just can’t _be_ here anymore. The music is so loud it feels like it’s replaced his heart beat, and the multi coloured lights that dip and spin and sway are disorienting and John wonders why they do that, who they’re trying to fuck over with their lights designed to make you feel like you’re the one dipping and swaying. 

John trips over to the merch table, and he pretends he likes James and James pretends right back and mostly they try not to talk to each other much. John buys a T-shirt because he’s run out of things to do with his hands and ways to look like he still belongs here. Stuffs it in the back pocket of his jeans. 

He looks back over at the dance floor, the crowd building there, and Herc is out there with Maria now, fingers entwined, dancing away, and she looks, hell, she looks _weightless_ , and John doesn’t think he’s ever seen the impact of what forgiveness can do like he sees it on her skin now. 

Nearby, Alex holds Eliza tight, hands in her hair, tongue down her throat, and she’s melted against him like she’d give him the whole goddamn world if he asked, and John knows Alex, knows he will ask. 

The bar suddenly feels too hot, too close, and bile rises in John’s throat as the whole world tilts a little, turns a sticky shade of green, and it’s not because it’s _them_ , not really (okay, maybe a little), it’s just that everyone here has someone, and John is alone. 

Nothing feels real anymore, and John can’t breathe. 

He ignores the way James is looking at him like he’s genuinely concerned that John might collapse right here on the merc table, and he fumbles for the door. 

Lets himself out and trips into the street, nearly falls flat on his face, and gasps cool air like it’s holy water. 

Overhead, there are stars, and in another time and place John knows they’d be beautiful. Spent many a night growing up lying on his back in a field staring up at them, wishing they were closer, wishing they were warm instead of cold and distant. But here, here they just play second fiddle to honking horns and streetlights, to flashing signs and hustle, bustle. Nothing is quiet here, nothing is still, and John loves just how easy it would be to melt into it all and disappear. 

He turns, because the band’s not done playing, and as much as John doesn’t want to be there, he doesn’t want to be out here alone either, and he owes it to Lafayette to stay. 

The bouncer folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head.

John blinks. 

“Uh… my friend’s in there…” he slurs. 

“Don’t care. You need to go home,” the bouncer replies sternly.

John eyes the bouncer up and down. Easily twice his size, but John still considers it for a moment, still thinks about rolling up the sleeves on his worn leather jacket and just fucking decking the guy, even if he knows he’ll lose in a millisecond, even if the bouncer’s forearm is the size of John’s head… 

“Don’t even think about it,” the bouncer says, but he’s grinning a little like he wants John to think about it, and man, John wants to think about it… 

Fuck it. 

He takes a swing at the bouncer’s head before he even knows he’s decided to do it, and John is pretty sure _nothing_ at all happens, but then he’s saying hello to the sidewalk with his face and the heels of his hands, jaw snapping closed with a clack that rattles his teeth in his mouth and makes stars burst bright and angry across his vision. 

John wants to bounce back up onto the balls of feet and fly at the bouncer in a fit of rage. Wants to be all steel and hurt and fire and fury, but when it comes right down to it, he can’t get his brain to connect to his body and he can’t get his hands underneath him to lift his head off the ground and it’s not like this wasn’t what he wanted in the first place. 

The taste of blood in his mouth. 

The sharp sting of pain in his palms, his jaw, his cheek. 

The way pain feels like heat and focus and draws everything into sharp relief, and John can breathe again. 

Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself to his hands and knees. Pauses there a moment to breathe, looking down at the dirty sidewalk, spotted with gum so old it’s nothing more than a dark stain now. He can taste blood like copper in his mouth, can feel his cheek stinging, eyes watering at the sharp, prickling kind of pain. 

His palms throb, and he can’t help but grin, feels more like himself, more balanced and stable than he has all evening. 

Slowly, John climbs to his feet with the help of a sticky street light, illuminated in its yellow glow. 

He twists to look back at the bouncer, who stands with his arms crossed and frowns as he watches John find his feet like Bambi on ice. John gives him a sloppy salute and a shit eating grin, and he turns and stumbles down the street. 

By the time John falls through the front door of the apartment he shares with Lafayette, everyone else is already there, party in full swing. 

“John! There you are, why didn’t you answer your phone!” Lafayette descends on him in a flurry of worry, all flapping hands, all fancy drink spilling out of his red solo cup onto John’s shirt as he tries to get his hands on him, pull him close, make sure he’s alright. 

John shrugs, doesn’t have an answer. Swipes Lafayette’s cup from him and puts it to his lips and tips his head back and manages to drink some but mostly just spills it down his chin and laughs and grins all sloppy at Lafayette and Lafayette sucks in a startled breath and it’s only then that John remembers that he said hi to the ground with his face and the ground didn’t respond in a particularly friendly manner. 

“John your face! Mon dieu! Let me fix you!” Lafayette tries to steer John down the hall towards the bathroom to patch him up, but John squirms out of his grasp and falls against the wall, shakes his head. 

“No, no, Laf. Just… just get me more to drink,” he says, and damn, Laf must be drunker than John can tell because he lets it go with just a worried sound in the back of his throat, and John escapes clumsily to the kitchen and doesn’t bother pouring himself a drink, just swipes someone’s bottle of whiskey and takes a swig. 

The heat of the liquor burns down his throat and it hits his stomach in a wave of warmth and Thomas walks into the kitchen and looks at John with that insufferably arrogant smile and the whole world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments pls <3


	2. Chapter 2

Something is tickling John’s nose. 

He groans, and tries to turn his face away, just encounters more. 

He reaches up with his hand, plants his palm against something warm and soft, and pushes, trying to push it away. 

“Hey,” a sleepy mumble protests the move, and John knows that voice, but he can’t put a finger on how. 

His mouth tastes like something curled up there and died, and his head is pounding, and he can’t quite make sense of his surroundings. Plush pillows, the smell of expensive cologne, the warm solidity of a body half underneath him, his palm flat against the side of someone’s face…

John pulls his hand back and rubs it over his own face, wants to die a little. 

Opens his eyes, squinting against the light of day, and wakes in a rush when he sees _who_ he’s cuddled up to. 

“Jefferson?” John asks, voice thick with hangover, and he squints at Thomas and could swear he suddenly feels ten times worse, head pounding, face aching, palms sore.

“Ah, you survived,” Thomas says in a slow, sleepy drawl. 

He looks the picture of perfection, all the long, sleepy lines of him, shirtless with the blankets halfway down his toned torso, brown skin smooth and soft. His hair is loose, spilled all over the pillows in a soft cloud of tight, black curls, and that smile… that fucking arrogant, smug little smile… it’s sleep soft and toned down but it’s still there and it makes John’s hackles rise and it makes bile rise in John’s throat and John sits up in a rush-

Too fast.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, dropping his face into his hands as the room tilts and swirls and his stomach threatens to climb right up his throat and out his aching jaw. 

“I swear to god if you puke I will wring your neck,” Thomas drawls. 

John gives him the finger. 

Swallows hard three times in a row to avoid doing just that.

“Charming,” Thomas says. 

“What…” John’s voice comes out in a croak and he stops, breathes deep for a moment and swallows hard. “What did you do to me?”

Thomas’ snort serves only to send a hot spike of anger through John’s bones. 

“Well?!” John drops his shaking hands into his lap, twists to glare at Thomas. “What the fuck did you do? Why are you naked?”

“Okay first of all, I’m not naked,” Thomas pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, mountains and mountains of pillows piled on the bed, spilled onto the floor, all soft shades of white and gray that starkly contrast the bright purple feature wall behind the bed which John is positive is contributing to the state of his aching head. “Second of all, nothing. I didn’t do anything to your shit faced ass except for hold your hair back while you puked, and bandage your hands, and clean up your face. I tried to put you to bed on the couch, but you insisted on sleeping in here,” Thomas snaps. 

John stares at Thomas like he has two heads. 

“I did fucking not,” he says, incredulous. 

Thomas shakes his head, throws the covers back and gets out of bed, and he’s not naked, but the tight, silky black boxer briefs that hug his ass leave nothing to the imagination, and John can’t help but stare for a long moment before he forcibly rips his gaze away. 

“You did,” Thomas answers, quite serious. 

“Well how the fuck did I get here?” John snaps, can’t believe he’s in Thomas’ apartment, in Thomas’ bed. 

“You walked,” Thomas says, like he’s trying hard to keep his patience while explaining something very simple to a stupid child, and John bristles all over again. 

“Like fuck I did,” John can’t imagine willingly coming here on his own two feet. 

John pushes himself to his feet, and his head swims and the whole world dips and sways and he wants to curl up right here on the floor and go back to sleep and never wake up again. Sways, and sits back down on the edge of the bed with a thump.

Thomas snorts a little laugh again. 

“You did. You followed me home. Go back to sleep Laurens, you’re in no shape to be awake,” Thomas says, and John thinks he might be hearing things because it almost sounds kind, and then Thomas is gone, shutting the door behind him, leaving John alone in his bedroom. 

John stares at his bandaged hands shaking in his lap and his legs clad in worn pajama pants, purple plaid and soft and rolled up at the bottoms, and he swallows a rising feeling of panic and lies back down. 

Pulls the white feather duvet up over his head and curls up in a ball and waits for death to claim him. 

~

When he swims his way out of the blankets and pillows hours later, the first thing John notices is the glass of water and pair of advil on the bedside table. 

He picks them up, pops them into his mouth, and swallows them down with a big gulp of water. 

Feels a lot more human, now. 

Thomas’ bed is heavenly. 

John flops over onto his back, stares at the sky out of the huge window. The bed is pushed snug to three walls, large enough to stretch the length of the room. The walls that aren’t purple are varying shades of gray, and there’s a plush purple throw spread across the foot of the bed. 

John rubs his hands over his face, stares at the ceiling, wishes he was literally anywhere else. 

He pushes himself up and off the bed. Drinks more water. Looks around for his clothes and doesn’t know where they are, so he pads in his bare feet out of the bedroom and down the hallway, into the rest of the open concept apartment. 

“Better?” Thomas looks up from his book, and John never realized how damn _tense_ Thomas is all the time until he sees him now, long lines of his lean body loose and relaxed as he sprawls on his couch. 

“Yeah. Where’s my clothes?” John looks around, and glares at Thomas suspiciously.

“On the bathroom counter,” Thomas says. 

John’s eyes narrow. 

“Wait,” He goes cold all over, staring at Thomas’ smug little smile, feeling all kinds of disoriented still. “You undressed me?!” His voice cracks, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

“Yeah,” Thomas drawls. Stretches, his tight tank top riding up and exposing a stretch of toned belly that John can’t help but glance at. 

John splutters, flushing darker at the thought of Thomas peeling him out of his clothes, touching his bare skin with those long fingers, looking at his body… 

He’s not sure if the abrupt twist of his stomach is nausea or shame or something else, and that just makes him feel worse. 

“And we didn’t… you didn’t…” John stumbles over his words, feels flushed and too hot and like he can’t breathe properly. 

“No,” Thomas answers, voice steady and even. “We didn’t do anything, Laurens. I’m not interested in fucking you when you’re so drunk you can’t even hold your head up or string two coherent words together.” 

John stares at Thomas, and Thomas stares back, expression neutral. 

Thomas huffs a sigh and stands up, and John watches him walk around the couch and walk up to him, and he doesn’t stop, just crowds into John’s space and John backs up, lets himself be walked back until his back hits the wall and he’s staring up at Thomas with his eyes wide and his whole body feeling like maybe it’s about to be set on fire. 

Thomas’ fingers find John’s chin and lift it slightly, and he stares down at him with something unreadable in his gaze and John’s breath catches in his throat and he hates himself for it. 

“You keep mentioning it, Laurens…” Thomas says, voice low and husky, “it’s almost like you want it to have happened…” 

John feels like he’s been electrocuted, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been as aware of touch as he is of the feather light press of Thomas’ fingers under his chin. 

“What?! No!” He snaps, defensive.

Thomas just smirks, and he leans in like he’s going to kiss John, and John is so not in any kind of shape for this, and his body reacts, leaning in towards Thomas, lips parting, eyes fluttering and trying to close while his brain is still trying to catch up with what’s happening, and then Thomas laughs a low laugh and John can feel his breath puffing over his lips and his heart is racing a mile a minute. 

“Trust me, John,” Thomas breathes, and the sound of his first name on Thomas’ lips sends a shiver up John’s spine, “if I was going to fuck you, I’d want you to remember it.”

Thomas steps back, lets John go, and John sags against the wall, swallows hard, feels like he can’t breathe right. 

“Not happening,” he snaps, hates the way the suggestion makes him feel all loose and scrambled inside. “I’m going home. Where’s the bathroom?” John pushes himself off the wall and stalks back down the hallway. 

“Last door on the left,” Thomas calls after him, nothing but friendly neutrality in his voice. 

John locks himself into the bathroom. Tries to calm his breathing, tries to settle his heart and stop it from punching through his ribs. It’s just the hangover, it’s just because it’s been a long time without touch and he spent all night curled into Thomas.

He doesn’t _actually_ want him. 

His clothes are there, as promised, clean and folded neatly. John changes quickly back into his jeans and red t-shirt, leaves the pajama pants and loose tank top folded neatly on the counter. Rinses his mouth with a bottle of mouthwash he finds under the sink, and looks at his face in the mirror. 

His left cheek bone is raw, pink flesh angry, skin puffy and pink around the open scrape, the dark beginnings of a bruise at the lower edge of his eye socket. 

His chin is scraped too, less raw, less painful, but the wounds are clean, and John shakes his head at himself, swallows the need to make it all hurt just a little more. 

Anything to clear the fog in his head and make it all feel a little more real. 

He reaches out, touches his fingertips to his reflection. Feels cold glass, and nothing more. 

With a sigh, John turns away. 

He walks back down the hall, stone flooring warm under his socked feet, hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

Thomas is in the kitchen, and when he turns at the sound of John’s footsteps, he has a travel mug in his hand, steam rising from its mouth, tantalizing aroma of coffee making John’s whole body come alive with _need_.

“Here. You need it,” Thomas says as he offers the mug to John. 

John takes it, gives Thomas a funny look as he stuffs his feet into his sneakers and yanks on his leather jacket. 

“What?” Thomas asks, folds his arms across his chest and regards John with that familiar arrogant look, like John is something unpleasant and unworthy that’s crossed his doorstep. 

“You don’t even like me…” John says, and it sounds lame to his own ears but he can’t help it. Curls his fingers around the warm mug, and doesn’t really know what to say. 

Thomas shrugs. 

“Go home, John. Lafayette can bring the mug back at our next practice,” he says. 

Well. 

There’s nothing left to say, after that, except for an awkward thanks that stumbles from John’s lips, and then he pulls open the door and steps out into the hallway. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he rides the elevator down to the street, scrolls through over a hundred increasingly frantic texts, voicemails, and missed calls from Lafayette. Fires off a quick text to tell him he’s still alive and on his way home. 

His phone is already buzzing as he slips it into his pocket, so John pulls it back out, turns it off. 

It’s not until he’s walking down the street, oriented and heading home, that the details begin to filter back in. 

Thomas, standing in the kitchen looking John up and down as John tips his head back and swallows tequila, something hot and unreadable in his eyes.

Thomas, muttering under his breath about how he has to leave, and pushing past John towards the door. 

John, stumbling after him like a dog on a leash, tripping into his shoes by some sort of miracle, hands finding his coat, falling into the outdoors where the cold air smacked him in the chest and the stars spun high over head like they were laughing at him. 

Thomas, turning with a frown, eyes going wide in surprise. 

Thomas, kneeling next to John on the bathroom floor, holding his hair while John pukes his guts out. 

Thomas, undressing him carefully, helping him into pajamas, pulling his hair back into a ponytail. 

Thomas, taking a warm wash cloth and carefully, so carefully, cleaning dirt and gravel and bits of glass out of John’s palms, rubbing polysporin in, bandaging his hands. 

Thomas, cupping John’s chin in his long fingers, washing his face clean of blood and dirt, whiskey and vomit, warm cloth soothing. Their faces, so very close together, Thomas’ eyes worried, John’s vision blurring, seeing double.

John, leaning forward, trying to get a clumsy kiss onto Thomas’ plush lips. 

Thomas, holding him back, telling him no. The world dipping and swirling, low yellow light from the ceiling painting everything a little surreal. John slumping against Thomas’ chest, Thomas’ voice in his ear saying something John couldn’t comprehend. Gold glow glittering, and taking over. 

“Shit,” John mutters as he walks, drinking the delightfully hot, perfectly brewed coffee that Thomas put in his hands, and wondering what the hell could have possibly possessed him to follow Thomas Jefferson home last night.


	3. Chapter 3

Another day, another bar, another drink in John’s hand that he wasn’t really tasting. 

Another means to another blurry end.

The party migrates back to the apartment, just like always, and John feels like he’s stuck in a loop. Bar, home, sleep, stare at a blank canvas for hours, repeat. Repeat, repeat. Another day, another drink, another struggle to feel anything, or nothing at all. 

Tonight he opts for nothing. 

Drinks another jack and coke and sprawls across Lafayette on the couch, not because he wants him, but because he wants touch. 

Lafayette curls an arm around John’s waist, loose, loopy. Laughs loud in John’s ear at something Angelica said. 

John drops his chin on Lafayette’s shoulder, staring over the back of the couch at the wall. Closes his eyes and just lets himself be in the middle of everything. Voices of friends, Lafayette’s laughter, Lafayette’s arm around his waist and his warm body beneath him. Jack and coke sticky on his lips, buzzing in his brain, heavy on the back of his tongue. 

Doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to move, doesn’t really want to exist in this moment except to feel it around him, feels a little apart from everything these days and isn’t sure he likes it, but for a moment it feels a lot like peace. 

Stays like that until Lafayette whispers something in his ear in French and taps him on the hip. 

John makes an unintelligible sound of protest, doesn’t want to move, but Lafayette says something more insistent, and he dumps John off his lap and stands up. 

John laughs, sprawled backwards on the couch, his head in someone new’s lap, everything spinning a little, everything blurry edged, and he wants to live in this feeling forever, this floaty, light, everything’s fine feeling-

Looks up to see who’s lap he’s in now, and blinks in surprise at the way Thomas is looking down at him, jaw tight, something John can’t quite decipher in his gaze. 

James peers down at him too, from where he stands near the arm of the couch, but John only has eyes for Thomas. 

Thomas, and the way Thomas is looking at him like he’s done something wrong, only John couldn’t possibly know what. 

“Oh,” John says, dumb, can’t quite get words out past his heavy tongue. 

Feels all prickly all of a sudden, and can’t sit here with Thomas looking at him like that. 

So he pushes himself up abruptly, and Lafayette is gone, and the girls are all dancing in the center of the room, Alex and Aaron talking quietly on the other side of the breakfast bar… 

No place for John here. 

So John weaves his way to the sliding glass doors and pushes out onto the balcony. Shuts the door behind him, and leans heavily on the railing.

The city stretches out before him. Millions of lights in the darkness. Millions of people living their lives. John tries to look up but the stars barely compete with the lights and sounds of the city, and he feels impossibly far away from home and everything he’s made of, but then again, South Carolina never felt much like home either. 

John drums his fingers on the railing and wishes he’d brought a drink out with him, wants something to take the edge off this sharp, lonely feeling that’s settled back into his chest again. Anything not to feel. 

The door slides open behind him. 

John doesn’t bother to look to see who’s joined him, just stares out at the city like he’s looking for something he knows he isn’t going to find. 

“Hey.” Thomas’ voice shakes John out of his reverie. He glances over at Thomas, and looks away again. 

“How’s it goin?” Thomas asks, lamely.

“Peachy,” John says shortly. 

“You always this charming?” Thomas quirks an eyebrow. He has a joint in his hand, licks the paper as he finishes rolling it, lights it, and brings it to his lips. 

“Yep,” John tries not to watch the way Thomas’ cheeks hollow obscenely around the end of the joint. 

“Can’t imagine why Hamilton dumped you,” Thomas says with a snort. Offers the joint to John. 

John takes it, and takes a long drag, lets the smoke fill his lungs and holds it for a beat before letting it out. Stares out at the city because he doesn’t want to look at Thomas’ smug fucking face until the sharp sting of his derisive comment fades. 

Sure, Thomas is right. All of that and more, but it doesn’t mean John wants to hear it. 

“You going to follow me home again tonight?” Thomas asks. 

“No,” John says. He holds out a hand for the joint, and Thomas shakes his head. Takes a long pull on the joint and turns towards John, beckons him in with a crooked finger and a tilt of his head. 

John’s heart does a somersault in his chest, and despite what he just said, he steps in. 

Thomas leans down, seals his lips over John’s, and heat blazes through John’s body as he inhales, smoke pouring from Thomas’ mouth right into his lungs. Holds it there for a moment as Thomas unseals their lips but doesn’t really go anywhere…

Feels caught in Thomas’ dark gaze, frozen, spell bound. Exhales slow, smoke rising through the sliver of space between them. 

Thomas brings the joint to John’s lips. 

John’s breath catches in his throat, and he sucks the smoke in, lips flush to Thomas’ fingers, smoke filling his mouth. 

He feels lighter, airy. Warm all over, starting with his lungs, out through to his fingertips. 

Tilts his head just so in invitation. 

Thomas leans in again, lets John seal their mouths together, and lets John exhale, smoke pouring into his mouth. 

Somewhere along the way, Thomas’ hand winds up on John’s upper arm. 

John grows aware of it suddenly, thumb stroking him through the thin fabric of his long sleeved shirt. Feels a little disconnected from everything, something that looks a little like what he imagines peace would feel like connecting his bones together. 

Thomas turns his head away to breathe the smoke back out, and John watches it disperse into the clear night sky, jaw a little slack. 

Thomas looks at John again, and John stares at him, a little fixated, mouth soft and open. 

“You gonna remember this, tomorrow?” Thomas asks. Moves that hand from John’s shoulder to cup his cheek, leans in a little. 

“Yeah,” John says, and it comes out barely a whisper, like he’s half a breath from floating off this balcony and dissipating too…

“Good,” Thomas’ voice is low, husky, and he closes the space between them, seals his mouth over John’s only there’s no smoke this time, no pretense, just lips and the wet heat of Thomas’ tongue licking into John’s mouth, and John kisses Thomas back with his eyes closed and the world pleasantly spinning, lets their tongues tangle together and melts against Thomas’ fingers on his face. 

Gets a little lost in it, sweet taste of Thomas’ mouth, smoke and red wine and chocolate, stroke of his tongue like a promise of something more, and John wants to feel Thomas, feel all of him, with a sudden need the rushes like heat through his whole body. 

Steps in closer, and Thomas breaks the kiss. 

Looks down at John with an open mouth, and drops his hand from John’s face. Reaches between them, and cups John’s half hard cock through his jeans. Presses. 

John presses into Thomas’ hand, lets out a soft sound of bliss, could stay out here forever if Thomas will just keep touching him…

Thomas huffs a little laugh. Lets go. Taps his finger tip on the corner of John’s mouth.

“Maybe later,” he whispers, and to John it sounds like a promise. 

Thomas hands John the rest of the joint, and opens the sliding door. 

The sudden onslaught of music and laughter feels like an assault to John, and he takes a step back, turns away when Thomas looks back at him, and brings the joint to his lips. 

~

 _Maybe later_ tugs John along. 

Later, when the world is really spinning, when the night is dissolving into what really does look like a mess, even to John’s eyes (is that Peggy making out with Maria? Is that Herc, glowering at them from across the room? Is that Lafayette, drunk and sobbing into the phone, probably Adrienne on the other end of the line? Is that Alex, about to launch a fist into John Adams’ face?) 

Later, everything still feels fuzzy edged and warm around John, but then he sees Thomas slipping out the door like he doesn’t want to be seen and everything feels abruptly cold. 

John wants that fuzzy warmth of earlier back. 

John wants heat, blooming from the tips of his toes up through his whole body. 

John wants and wants and wants and wants. 

John slips out the door. 

John stops at the top of the stairs and looks down at Thomas looking up at him, cold night air nipping his nose, stars swirling in the sky overhead. 

Thomas doesn’t say anything, just smirks, arms folded across his chest. 

John trips his way down the stairs and crashes into Thomas, who catches him, just barely, the force of impact sending them spinning on the sidewalk, and John is laughing and nothing hurts and there’s that gold glow again, that warmth, that floaty feeling he’s chasing, fleeting and fragile. 

John laughs in Thomas’ arms, and Thomas straightens them out and he lets John go and he starts walking without a backwards glance.

John follows him home.


	4. Chapter 4

John wakes up with the morning sun soft on his face. 

John wakes up with the taste of regret on his tongue. 

John wakes up with his head pillowed in Thomas’ lap, Thomas’ fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

His mouth is dry and his tongue feels like sandpaper and the sun is too bright and his head throbs. He groans, wishes he wasn’t awake, hates this heavy, fuzzy headed morning after feeling where his body is full of bricks and his heart is still beating sluggishly along and everything feels off kilter and nothing feels good.

Nothing, except Thomas’ fingertips against his scalp, and John keeps his eyes closed because he doesn’t want it to end and he doesn’t admit that he doesn’t want it to end.

It’s the first soft place he’s found in months, and he doesn’t feel guilty letting it drag out a little longer. 

“Want advil?” Thomas asks, voice slow and soft. 

John opens one eye. He looks up at Thomas, and Thomas looks down at him, face soft, relaxed. He’s got a book in his hand, but he closes it and sets it aside now, fingers still gently working at John’s scalp, and everything feels soft and it feels easy and it almost feels safe and John feels a little spellbound by the depth of warmth in Thomas’ gaze and so he opens his mouth but instead of words, he just nods. 

“Sit up then, come on,” Thomas says, little teasing creeping into his voice, and John struggles up out of the blankets, sits awkwardly in the middle of Thomas’ huge bed, blankets puddled around his waist. 

He’s wearing the same loose tank top and pajama pants as last time. Hair loose, curls falling around his shoulders. 

Thomas hands him the advil and a glass of water from the bedside table, and John takes them without a thought, passes the water back, and sinks back down into the bed, blankets up around his ears, hazel eyes fixed on Thomas’ face. 

Doesn’t want to face the truth of how comfortable this feels. 

Doesn’t want to acknowledge how very badly he wants Thomas’ mouth over his again, feels it smouldering in his bones like an echo of all the heat that blazed between them, heavy and sticky and tasting like pot. 

Thomas shifts, lies back down and stretches out, all long and languid and loose. Takes his long fingered hand and brushes the backs of his fingers over John’s freckled cheekbone. 

John’s lips part at the touch, and he breathes out a soft breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

Thomas smirks, and the sight of that smile tugs at something deep down inside John. 

Thomas’ fingers brush a stray curl back from John’s forehead, tuck it behind his ear with utmost care, and John forgets that his head hurts, forgets that his body feels like it’s made of bricks, forgets that his throat feels a little scorched and scratchy, because Thomas’ fingers on his face feel like a promise, and John holds his breath and waits for it to break. 

Thomas trails his finger down John’s nose, then lets two fingers glide across John’s lower lip. 

John’s mouth drops open, and Thomas pauses, fingertips heavy on John’s bottom lip. 

He pulls his gaze up, looks right into John’s eyes, and John can’t breathe, feels nothing but _want_ , heavy on his lungs. 

Thomas pushes the tips of his fingers into John’s open mouth. 

John makes a strangled sound of pure need, and curls his tongue around Thomas’ fingertips. Sucks, light and teasing, tastes salt from Thomas’ skin. 

Thomas says nothing, just looks at John with nothing at all written on his face, and pushes his fingers in, slowly, pressing down heavy on John’s tongue. 

John’s cock twitches in his pajama pants, and he moans, too loud, shame blooming bright across his cheeks, but Thomas just looks at him, just lets his fingers weigh heavy on John’s tongue, and John sucks at them, worries them with his tongue, watches Thomas’ face and feels like he’s going to float away there’s so much need and want and his body isn’t bricks anymore, it’s nothing but heat. 

Thomas fits a third finger past John’s tight lips. 

John wets it with his tongue, teases the pads of Thomas’ fingertips, sucks them to the back of his throat and swallows around them. 

Damn near burns right up and disappears when Thomas’ eyes flutter closed and his lips part on a heavy breath.

Thomas pulls his fingers back, slowly, slowly, and John whines at the loss of them, but then Thomas’ mouth is on his, and Thomas’ body crashes up against his and rolls him onto his back and then Thomas is on top of him and Thomas’ tongue is in his mouth and Thomas’ hard cock is up against his hip bone and John moans, and John’s hands go to Thomas’ back, fingers splayed, and John arches up into Thomas and he wants to drown in this.

Thomas tastes like mouthwash and heat and everything John isn’t supposed to want but wants anyways. 

John’s hands slide up Thomas’ back, and John shifts, spreads his legs, and Thomas takes a hint and settles between them, lines their cocks up and rocks his hips and oh-

John’s eyes roll back in his head and he arches up into that delicious friction. He hikes one leg up over Thomas’ hips, digs his fingers into Thomas’ shoulders, grinds himself up against Thomas, cocks rubbing together through two thin layers of fabric, and he feels like he’s burning up from the inside with need. 

Thomas pulls back, nips John’s lower lip, pauses and goes still, looking down at him. 

John rocks his hips, breath catching at the way their cocks rub together. 

“You sure you want this?” Thomas asks, voice low and husky and full of wet heat and want, and John can’t believe he’s asking, can’t believe he doesn’t _know_ , can’t _tell_ from the way John is still rocking his hips beneath him, sweet drag of friction so fucking good…

“Please, please, please,” John chants, doesn’t know how so much want can live inside his skin without stretching it to bursting. 

Thomas makes a sound that could mean anything, and he tosses the blankets back off of their bodies and the cool morning air kisses goosebumps to the surface of John’s freckled body and John presses closer to Thomas and digs his nails into Thomas’ shoulders and everything is too bright and too real and so soft that John doesn’t even want to _breathe_ for fear of ruining it. 

“Say it, tell me what you want, John,” Thomas says, and there’s a little edge in there somewhere, and Thomas is lifting up, stripping off his boxer briefs and John’s pajama pants and John’s tank top and John feels breathless and like he doesn’t know how to make words lift off his tongue and besides, he wants everything, he wants all of it, Thomas’ mouth and hands and cock and sweat and heartbeat and lungs and he doesn’t know how to articulate all of that into anything that makes sense. 

“You,” John pants. Runs his hands down to Thomas’ hips, revels in the flat, hard expanse of his belly. 

Thomas stares down at John, leans in and kisses him, feather light and slow. Pulls back when John tries to lick into his mouth. 

“Me what, John?” Thomas says, little taunting, little edge creeping in that makes John shiver and swallow hard. 

“Touch my cock, make me come,” John says, breathless, desperate. 

“Say my name, you selfish prick,” Thomas hisses, and there it is, that sharp edge, that bite, that raw feel, real feel. 

“Fuck you, touch me, Jefferson,” John spits back, all fire, all need, bites down hard on all the soft places until they retreat behind his ribs. 

“My _first_ name, you motherfucker,” Thomas snaps. 

“Touch me, _Thomas_ , or don’t you know how?” John bites back, all feral grin, all hard edges, all fight me, I dare you. 

“I hate you,” Thomas hisses, and he kisses John like he wants to _own_ him, and John feels hot all over, and John’s skin shivers, and John wants to melt into Thomas and never come back but he kisses him back like he doesn’t want to be owned and he ignores the way his stomach does a backflip at the possessive growl that rips from Thomas’ throat. 

Thomas breaks the kiss to spit into the palm of his hand, then kisses John again, and wraps his hand around John’s cock. 

John’s hips hitch and his breath hitches and his heart hitches. 

Thomas starts to stroke John’s cock, and yeah, okay, John takes back his comment about Thomas not knowing how and he swallows a loud moan and he arches up into the touches, Thomas’ wet fingers hot around the length of his cock, stroking him with tight, quick strokes, and there’s precome dripping on John’s stomach, and Thomas’ tongue is stealing all the words from his throat and John is all hard edges but he is melting fast. 

Then Thomas does this little twist with his wrist, and something comes loose inside John and he can’t swallow all the little moans and huffed breaths that want to leave his lips now, telling tiny secrets to Thomas’ tongue, Thomas’ mouth, Thomas’ throat. 

“Gonna come, Thomas,” John pants into Thomas’ mouth, heat coiling like a spring in his gut. 

Thomas goes still, squeezes down hard on the base of John’s cock. 

“No you aren’t,” he says, and John chokes, wants to hit Thomas for that, twists his hips to try to get away but can’t, Thomas’ body covering him, holding him in place, and he just wants to feel something that makes sense, god damn it. He strangles a sound of angry protest behind clenched teeth, and Thomas laughs and it’s not a happy sound, and then Thomas’ hand loosens and Thomas’ cock shoves into his grip, snug against John’s. 

Thomas strokes them both, fingers tight around them, and John feels too big for his skin, too much for his skin, and he tilts his head back and lets his mouth fall open and Thomas’ hand, slick with spit and precome, feels so fucking good and maybe if he doesn’t _say_ he’s going to come-

Thomas’ hand goes still again, and John could almost cry it’s so much, heat and fireworks just under his skin. 

“Let me come,” he pleads, squirms again, trying to get loose from that punishing pressure around his cock so he can get some relief. 

“I don’t think so,” Thomas says, casual, almost bored, like his fingers aren’t cutting off the circulation to his own cock too. 

“Please,” John says, all breathless and pounding heart and aching need. 

Thomas makes a non-committal sound, and starts to move his hand again, wrist twisting, tight, wet heat around John’s cock and John can’t take it anymore, feels loose and on the verge of flying into pieces, breathing hard. 

“Please, please, Thomas, let me come,” John begs, breaking down, little moans from his lips, and he knows Thomas is watching him but he doesn’t even feel real anymore, and then his whole body tightens and his orgasm slams into him and Thomas lets him come, strokes him through it. 

John’s vision goes white and his mouth opens on a loud moan, come splashing onto his stomach in hot stripes and his mind shorts out and it’s so fucking _good_. 

He goes loose and liquid under Thomas, mouth open, panting, whole body tingling as he comes slowly back to earth. 

Watches Thomas rock back onto his heels and stroke himself, head tipped back, lower lip between his teeth. 

John feels fuzzy headed, doesn’t feel real, wants to reach out and touch Thomas but can’t quite get that thought from his head to his fingertips to make it happen, and then Thomas is coming, adding to the mess on John’s stomach with a punched out grunt.

The whole world goes still. Nothing but Thomas’ dark eyes looking down at John, Thomas’ parted lips, Thomas’ chest moving as he breathes. 

Thomas huffs a little laugh, grins the tiniest grin. 

“Pretty,” he says, eyes traveling up John’s body, but it doesn’t quite sound like a compliment and John suddenly feels dirty and he feels used and he feels too small and too real. 

Thomas gets up, and he pulls on his boxer briefs and he opens the bedroom door and looks back at John. 

“Go have a shower and get dressed,” he says, cold, and he walks out. 

John stares at the closed door for a long moment before he can connect his brain back to his body, feels all heavy again, bricks for bones, come cooling on his stomach. 

He stands up, and he grabs his clothes from the floor and he doesn’t look at the purple plaid pajama pants with their rolled up cuffs or the bed with it’s gray and white bedding and the soft sun pouring in invitingly and he doesn’t think about the way Thomas touched him so softly, just for a moment. 

Instead, he walks down the hall to the bathroom and gets in the shower and he washes the come off his belly and sticks his face right under the spray and holds his breath and tries not to feel anything at all and doesn’t want to admit to himself that his hands are shaking with want of Thomas and his heart is aching pre-emptively. 

He borrows Thomas’ shampoo and washes his hair and scrubs himself clean and wants to scrub and scrub until he’s raw and smarting. 

It takes everything he has in him to get back out of the shower and dry off and pull his clothes back on. 

It takes everything he has in him to walk down the hall and into the living room where Thomas is dressed and waiting for him. 

“Ready to go?” Thomas asks, and John stops. Stares at Thomas with his head tipped to the side, realizes Thomas has his shoes and jacket on.

“What?” John asks. 

“Breakfast?” Thomas says, like it’s obvious. 

“Uh…” John gives Thomas a funny look, and slips his shoes on. “Why?” 

“Because I usually take a guy out for dinner before I take him to bed but we’ve already done the bed part and it’s morning so you’ll have to make do with breakfast, okay?” Thomas says, and his jaw is tight and he looks anywhere but at John when he says it and John doesn’t know what to think so he pulls on his jacket and opens the door. 

“Uh, okay,” he says, and walks out, doesn’t give Thomas a chance to do anything except follow him. 

~

Thomas takes John to a restaurant with a rooftop patio and pretty planted flower boxes and yellow umbrellas over the tables. The waitress brings them mimosas and everything is warm and gold and perfect, and everything feels brand new and fragile. Thomas orders for John before John can even open his mouth but it doesn’t feel overbearing, not with the way Thomas is watching him over the top of the menu and suddenly John feels like he can’t breathe and he feels like he wants to cry so instead he drains his mimosa glass in one big swallow because it’s easier to look at his life from behind a curtain of alcohol. 

Thomas says nothing, just sips his mimosa and puts his napkin in his lap and carefully watches a bird on the next roof over until John has a chance to remember how to breathe. 

The waiter refills John’s mimosa glass, and steps away again. 

John takes a sip of his mimosa, champagne bubbling over his tongue, and he looks at Thomas and realizes he doesn’t know a damn thing about him. 

“So, where are you from?” John asks, because Thomas is obviously not a native New Yorker, and his accent is warm and almost reminds John of home. 

“Virginia,” Thomas answers, and he’s giving John that loaded look again, heavy and full of things John doesn’t want to look too closely at, so he takes another long swallow of his mimosa. “Yourself?” Thomas asks, and he looks relaxed, long body elegant in his chair, perfectly put together. 

John drinks more. 

“South Carolina,” he answers. 

“Mmm, do you ever miss it?” Thomas asks, and he’s still watching John close, and John looks at Thomas but he doesn’t want to see, so he hides behind another swallow of mimosa and he shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. 

Pauses, and shrugs a little. 

“Well. Maybe some little things. You can’t really see the stars here, and it’s never quiet, never still. The ocean… Rockaway beach just isn’t the same. Sweet tea…” he trails off, and goes still under Thomas’ heavy gaze. 

Feels like he doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to move, wants to float away on this half drunk, warm spring sun, heavy anticipation feeling before reality catches up and takes hold. 

“You almost forget how peaceful night time actually is…” Thomas says, soft, and he’s still watching John so close, like he’s searching for something, and John doesn’t know what and he doesn’t know if he hopes Thomas finds it or if he hopes he doesn’t. “Decent grits. The wineries… the pace....” 

Thomas trails off as their food arrives, and John lets the food distract them, fluffy belgian waffles piled high with strawberries and whipped cream, and John doesn’t know if Thomas _knew_ he loves strawberries, or if it was a lucky guess, but either way, he’s happy. 

They eat in relative silence, the sun warm on John’s back, and up here surrounded by flowers and umbrellas and the soft noise of other people dining, John can almost forget he’s in NYC, can almost forget that the reason he’s four mimosas in at breakfast isn’t just because life is all summer sun and gold champagne glow. 

Almost, until their plates are cleared away and Thomas plucks a daisy out of the vase in the center of their table, and leans over to gently slide it behind John’s ear. 

John’s breath catches, and he wants to lean into Thomas’ hand, let its warmth cup his cheek. 

He wants to close his eyes and lean into the sun and the bright colour and the way Thomas looks at him. Wants to soak it all up, wants the sun to kiss his freckles darker, wants Thomas to suck bruises onto his skin and connect the dots, wants to stay here where everything is gold and soft forever. 

Remembers instead, Thomas above him, saying ‘I hate you’ before he ever even got his hand on John’s cock, and abruptly feels all the gold glow turn green tinged. John’s stomach turns over unpleasantly, and John looks at Thomas and he can’t tell what he’s thinking, doesn’t know what he wants. 

“Would you like to go for a walk in the park with me, after?” Thomas asks as he signs the cheque and hands it back to the waiter. 

John feels like he’s going to be sick. Shakes his head, pushing his chair back. 

“What, like this is some kind of date?” he asks, and it comes out sharper than he meant it to but none of this, not one soft piece of it, is really for John. 

“Isn’t it?” Thomas asks, and he’s still so still, so calm, so relaxed that it makes John want to scream and it makes John want to make Thomas _react_.

John snorts. Stands up. 

“No it’s not a date,” he sneers. “It’s just you trying to make yourself feel better for jerking off with someone you despise.”

John tosses his napkin on the table and he turns and stalks out of the restaurant, blood hot in his veins. 

Doesn’t look back, not once. 

Walks all the way home feeling too hot for his skin, like he’s going to rip apart, everything inside too big to fit there comfortably and so he can’t breathe right and his hands shake and he just wants something to hurt in a way that makes sense, a way he can see, but it’s too early to get drunk and get into a bar fight. 

He thinks of himself at seventeen in the bathroom of a church with shaking hands and an exacto knife. 

He swallows hard against it because it isn’t _cute_ anymore, it’s not funny, he’s too old for that now… 

But he wants it.

Ends up face down on his bed instead, hands in his hair, wants to scream. 

He can hear Lafayette in the shower, singing along in French, and yeah, okay, he gets why they made Thomas the front man, but hearing Lafayette shakes something loose inside John and he laughs a hysterical little laugh and rolls onto his back. 

The daisy falls out from behind his ear.

John picks it up and twirls it between his fingers, then pops it into the glass of water on his bedside table. 

Looks at it, soft white petals and happy yellow center, out of place in a glass of water all alone. Listens to Lafayette sing and fights back sudden tears, throat tight. 

Thinks about getting up and joining Lafayette in the shower. Knows he wouldn’t say no. 

Digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to breathe and just stays still, instead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****TW NON CON****  
> This chapter is the reason for the non-con warnings. Some non-con kissing/touching occurs in this chapter.

So John doesn’t take an exacto knife to the soft flesh of his inner arm.

But he leaves the bar alone at the end of the band’s set. His vision blurs and the sidewalk tilts and he has to hold his hand out to the side, lean into buildings and lamp posts as he stumbles along. 

But he doesn’t go home to the after party, to the lights and noise and laughter. Doesn’t want the onslaught of sound, the way everything feels like it’s too much and not enough all at once. 

But he trips down a dark alley and his fist finds a stranger’s face for no reason other than that he just wants to feel something simple. 

So he grins as a fist finds his face. 

So he eggs it on and he throws himself into it and the taste of blood in his mouth feels like relief and tastes a little like salvation, or what John imagines salvation would taste like. 

So he stumbles down the street with bloody knuckles and a bloody nose and a bloody lip. 

He stumbles down the street with scraped hands and a scraped jaw and a blackening eye. 

He stops to vomit, strings of bile and whiskey and blood splattering the sidewalk. 

Sways and nearly falls. 

Pulls out his phone, fumbles it unlocked. Thumbs out a text message to Lafayette:

 **John:** rghttio ei joirdjh jod

Stops a moment to stare up at the sky, trying to focus on the stars past the lights and the smog. Everything spins, and he has to admit it looks pretty like this, almost that gold glow he’s constantly chasing, that numbness, that peace, that warmth. 

He stumbles sideways, nearly falls over. 

Keeps moving along, left foot, right foot, feels like his body is coming apart at the seams, all loose, all disconnected. 

Falls through the door of an apartment building and squints in the bright lights and he mashes the buttons on the interphone and listens to it ring loud inside his head. 

“Hello?” A woman’s voice comes over the speaker, sleep thick and confused. 

“Oh. Not you,” John slurs, and he mashes the buttons again and hears a loud beep of protest. 

Fumbles his phone out again and calls Lafayette. Puts him on speaker phone and leans against the wall while it rings. 

“John? Where are you?!” Lafayette’s voice fills the room, worry sharp. 

“Call Thomas,” John slurs, “make him let me in.” 

John hangs up and drops his phone back in his pocket, hears it ringing as if in a dream, can’t connect his mind to his fingers to fish it back out and answer it. 

It feels like forever before the lobby door opens and Thomas walks to him, grips him by his shoulders and looks down at him with distaste written all over his face. 

“What the fuck, Laurens,” Thomas breathes, nose crinkled up. 

“Fuck,” John repeats. 

Thomas sighs a heavy sigh, and takes John’s hand and leads him through the door and into the elevator. 

“Let’s just get you cleaned up and into bed,” Thomas says, and he’s not looking at John and his jaw is tight and his shoulders are tight and John wants to lick into the hollow at the base of Thomas’ throat but Thomas’ fingers are twined with his and holding on tightly and John feels a little spellbound by it. Doesn’t want to breathe because he doesn’t want Thomas to take his fingers away, feels like they’re the only solid thing left in the world. 

John tries to slump against Thomas, and Thomas stops him. 

“You’re covered in blood and puke, John,” Thomas says, voice deadly even, quiet, cold. 

John shrinks a little. Chews at the split in his lip and inhales sharply at the sweet burst of pain. 

Thomas looks over at him. Cups John’s chin, and gently thumbs John’s lip out of his teeth. 

“Stop that,” he says, and he looks at John like maybe there might be something soft here after all, and John scrapes his teeth back over his lip again and his breath catches and Thomas pulls his lip back out from between his teeth again. “I mean it, stop that. It’s not cute, John. None of this is cute.”

John stares up at Thomas, and he doesn’t bite into his lip again no matter how much he wants to, and he trembles at the way something inside him fixates on Thomas and feels tugged along by him. 

Thomas huffs a soft sigh, and looks away, and then the elevator dings and Thomas leads John out and down the hall and into his apartment. Locks the door behind them. Helps John out of his shoes. Leads John down the hall to the bathroom. 

John stumbles, and splays his legs to try to stand, harsh light making him squint, the room spinning around him, and he wants to lean into Thomas but Thomas is still looking at him like he’s something disgusting. 

“Come on. Shirt off,” Thomas takes the hem of John’s shirt and peels it off, throws it right into the washing machine. Peels John’s jeans and underwear off, followed by his socks. Throws it all in the wash and turns on the machine, soft rumbling sound that feels a little like warmth and a little like home and makes it suddenly hard for John to swallow. 

“Where does it hurt?” Thomas asks, looking John up and down. 

John sways, and he watches Thomas turn on the shower and peel his own shirt off, and he watches Thomas’ fingers hook into his pajama pants and slide them down over his hips and John wants his mouth on every single inch of Thomas’ rich brown skin and everything feels a little sharp and empty. 

“John?” Thomas prompts, and John shakes his head and reaches for Thomas because he doesn’t want to stand here alone in the middle of a cold, spinning room with a washing machine that sounds like home. 

“Everywhere,” John whispers. 

Thomas huffs a little sound that could mean anything, and helps John into the shower as steam rises and fills the room and John sways and his head throbs and all of his wounds sting and smart and the hot water makes him hiss through his teeth and the burn is so good. 

Thomas snakes an arm around John’s waist and John slumps against him, head in the crook of Thomas’ shoulder and there’s that delightful hollow at the base of his throat, damp with steam and right there for the taking. 

John makes a strangled sound of want deep in his throat and he leans in and dips his tongue into that hollow, clings onto Thomas like a lifeline. 

“John stop,” Thomas says, going perfectly still against him. 

John mouths at Thomas’ neck, wants to feel something, anything, wants Thomas to fucking rip him apart. 

Bites Thomas’ neck, closes his eyes and nearly goes weak with relief at feeling something _real_ between his teeth, has a split second to go liquid over it before Thomas’ fingers dig into his hair and yank his head back, neck bared. 

John’s eyes snap open and he’s staring at the ceiling and there’s steam in his nose and his nostrils are flaring and his chest heaves as he tries to breathe and he can’t really breathe right and Thomas’ hand tight in his hair feels like the answer to John’s prayers. 

“Is this what you want, John? Like this? Really?” Thomas snarls, all heat, all anger, all fingers yanking John’s hair, and John moans, can’t help it, and his cock twitches a little in interest. 

“Yes,” John hisses through clenched teeth, and then Thomas slams him up against the wall and the air leaves John’s lungs in a grunt and Thomas’ mouth is _right there_.

“Fuck you, John Laurens. Fuck you,” Thomas snarls, and their mouths crash together and it’s all rough all take all blood and pain and sharp and John goes weak kneed with it, melts into Thomas, needs more and more and more, grabs on tight to Thomas’ shoulders and he can’t breathe and the world spins and Thomas holds him pinned to the wall with his body and John’s bruised ribs sing in agony and John bites Thomas’ lower lip and tugs, and Thomas kisses him like he’s trying to own him, and then abruptly, he’s pulling away. 

Breathing hard, staring at John with his mouth wide open. 

He lets go of John’s hair. 

“I can’t do this like this. I don’t want this like this John,” Thomas says, quiet. 

It shatters something inside John, and just like that John can’t breathe and the heat and the steam and the pain and Thomas is all too much and the world turns green and hot and John’s stomach flips over.

“Help,” John croaks, and Thomas is _right there_ and the look on his face breaks John’s heart, but then John’s stomach flips over again and he can’t even turn his head away before he starts puking. 

“Shit,” Thomas says, and he lowers John to the shower floor and John sprawls onto hands and knees and his stomach heaves and Thomas’ fingers hold his hair back and Thomas’ other hand rubs his shoulders and John starts crying. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright, you’re gonna be okay,” Thomas whispers. 

John shakes his head, pukes again, chokes, and sobs and sobs, body shaking and shaking, blood and vomit swirling down the drain. 

“Shh, here, it’s alright. Are you done puking?” Thomas soothes. 

John nods, head loose on his neck. 

“It’s- it’s too hot,” he chokes out. Wants to lie down right here in the water and never get up. 

Thomas reaches over him, and the water cools, and John feels a little more like he can breathe, and then Thomas is gathering him close, cradling him in his lap on the shower floor, and John goes limp against him and sobs and sobs and stuffs his wrist in his mouth and bites down hard and still feels like he can’t breathe. 

“Hey,” Thomas tugs John’s wrist away, covers the bite mark with his hand. “Stop that. It’s not cute.”

John lets out a howl of anguish, and shakes his head, and feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, but Thomas just holds him and rocks him a little, and presses a feather soft kiss to John’s forehead. 

“Shh. You’re alright, it’s okay, I’ve got you John,” Thomas whispers. 

John sobs and sobs and shakes in Thomas’ arms until there’s no tears left in him, and then Thomas carefully washes his face clean with a soft washcloth, and carefully cleans the blood and vomit away from John’s body, and John feels fuzzy and warm and not really real, and he can’t take his eyes off Thomas’ face and he needs him like a lifeline. 

Thomas washes every inch of John’s too hot, too sensitive skin, soothes all the raw aching, all the deep bruising, and then he turns off the water and picks John up and sits him on the counter. 

John sways and blinks in the bright lights until Thomas reaches over and hits the dimmer switch, and then he wraps John in a fluffy white towel and carefully dabs polysporin on John’s scraped chin and split lip. 

“How’re we doing?” Thomas smooths John’s hair back from his forehead, soft, careful, and John feels like he’s breaking into a billion tiny pieces. 

Swallows hard. 

“Okay,” he whispers, because he’s not puking or crying anymore, and that’s something. 

“Good,” Thomas presses the softest of kisses to John’s forehead, and then he pulls back and turns on the water. Squeezes toothpaste onto a purple toothbrush and wets it. Cups John’s chin. “Open up.”

John lets his mouth drop open, and stares at Thomas with wide eyes, feels like he’s going to evaporate into static as Thomas brushes his teeth, so careful, so gentle. 

“Spit,” Thomas says. Rinses the toothbrush and fills a cup with water. 

John spits toothpaste and blood into the sink. Lets Thomas hold the cup to his lips, rinses the foam away, and lets Thomas carefully wipe his mouth. 

“There. Let’s get you in bed, you’ll be alright.” Thomas helps John down from the counter and walks him down the hall to the bedroom, arm tight around John’s waist. Helps John into the bed, and tucks him carefully in. “I’ll be right back, don’t move.”

Leaves John alone. 

John rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling and feels all shaken loose, all head spinning, all falling apart. 

“Ah ah. On your side,” Thomas chides softly, reappearing as if by magic. 

He sets a large bowl on the bedside table, and climbs into bed beside John. 

John turns over, facing Thomas, wants to be close, wants to feel warm and safe and wanted. 

“No baby. Other side in case you get sick again,” Thomas says. 

John pouts, but he rolls over. Closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the heavy alone feeling that settles in his chest. 

Thomas moves in snug behind him, and John can hear him hitting buttons on his phone, and John curls up because he feels like he might just die.

“Hey,” Thomas’ voice is soft, low. 

John exhales loud through his nose. 

“Yeah, yeah. He’s here,” soft pause, and Thomas sighs, “No… Laf… it’s alright, just. We’ll talk later, but he’s here, I’ve got him into bed.”

John bites his lower lip again, feels blood bloom into his mouth. 

“Ok. Ok. Goodnight, Laf.” Thomas reaches over John and sets his phone down, then tucks his arm in tight around John, holds him close. “Go to sleep, John.”

John squeezes his eyes shut, tries to remember how to breathe without crying. Searches for Thomas’ hand in the blankets, threads their fingers together, and holds on for dear life.


	6. Chapter 6

When John wakes up, the whole world has gone soft again. 

Soft morning light through the huge window, soft gray and white bedding around him, plush towel under his head. 

John aches. 

A bone deep, all over ache that starts at his skin and goes right down to his guts. 

John lies still and tries to breathe. Looks at the purple throw rug and the purple feature wall and the purple plaid pj pants hanging on the back of the bedroom door with their cuffs rolled up. Looks at the large bowl on the bedside table, the bottle of water, the advil. 

Presses back into the warmth of Thomas’ leg, and wishes he wasn’t awake. 

“John?” Thomas asks. 

John rolls over, and blinks up at Thomas in the late morning light. 

Thomas looks down at him, and he looks as tired as John feels, body loose against the pillows, book in his hand. 

“Hi,” John says, because this is the third time he’s woken up like this, and he doesn’t know what else to say anymore. 

“Are you okay?” Thomas asks, and the question throws John for a loop and he frowns. 

He frowns, and then he remembers and he goes cold all over and he closes his eyes and shakes his head but he opens his mouth and says yes. 

“What do you want, John?” Thomas asks, and he sounds tired, he sounds so tired, and John opens his eyes and looks at the open way Thomas is looking at him, looks at everything Thomas is offering him, and he reaches down inside himself and he comes up short on things to offer back that aren’t damaged and bruised so he shrugs. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and he almost says it like an apology, but like magic, the shutters come down on all the open softness in Thomas’ face and it disappears. 

“You show up here once, okay, weird but whatever. Twice… little strange, since you don’t seem to like me much. But three times? John, what the fuck do you want?” Thomas snaps, and he stares out the window with his jaw set, and all John can do is shrug again because he doesn’t know, he doesn’t fucking know how he keeps ending up here. 

“I don’t know,” he says again, and he feels a little sick, feels a little trapped and exposed. 

So he sits up, doesn’t want all the ways Thomas will pretend he cares, doesn’t want any of it. 

Thomas’ hand catches his wrist, and holds on tight. 

“What do you _want_ , John? Because I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fun, it’s not funny, it isn’t cute. I stayed up all night last night just to make sure you didn't die in your sleep, I can't keep doing this for no reason. What the fuck do you _want_?” Thomas squeezes a little, and it feels warm, and John’s breath catches at the way he’s suddenly aware that there are tiny bones there, under the heavy press of Thomas’ fingers, and he feels a little like he’s going to fly all apart but Thomas keeps asking and asking like he’s trying to rip under John’s skin and see what’s there. 

So John turns around and straddles Thomas’ hips instead of getting up and he stares down at him and he wants to hit him but he also wants to kiss him and he also wants to curl up against him under the covers and never wake up again. 

“I just want to fucking feel something, okay?” he says, all heat, all desperate, all sharp edges and nearly shattering. 

“You want to feel something,” Thomas repeats, voice flat. 

“Yeah,” John spits, and he’s shaking a little, and he needs to hurt and he needs to feel something because most of the time he just feels numb and he can’t really breathe right and he just wants to be reminded that he exists. 

So he stares down at Thomas and he drags his teeth over his lower lip and breaks open the split again, blood spilling onto his tongue, and Thomas swears under his breath and reaches up and grabs John by the neck.

John lands on his back beneath Thomas so fast he doesn’t even realize it’s happened until he’s staring _up_ at Thomas. He’s got his lip in his teeth and he bites down, breathes in sharp at the pain and feels clear headed for a second. 

Thomas grabs his chin and uses his thumb to pull John’s lip out of his mouth. 

“Stop doing that,” he snaps. 

John does it again out of spite. 

Thomas looks at John like he wants to hit him, like he’s holding something back that trembles just under his skin and it makes John tremble in turn, so John grins around his bloody lip and he bites down harder and Thomas lets go of his chin and wraps his hand around John’s throat again and John goes still. 

John goes still with his heart in his throat under Thomas’ hand and his bloody mess of a lip between his own teeth. 

“You just want to feel something because you feel like you can’t breathe right, most of the time, yeah?” Thomas asks, voice hot and harsh and low. 

“Yeah,” John breathes back, watches Thomas’ face, digs his teeth into his lip, tastes blood like iron on his tongue. 

“You don’t know how to feel anything real, yeah?” Thomas asks, sharp edges and gravel in his voice. 

“Yeah,” John admits, because Thomas’ hand is on his throat and his heart is in his throat and he really can’t breathe right and nothing ever feels real anymore unless he’s tasting blood in his mouth and carrying pain in his palms. 

“Fuck off, yes you do,” Thomas snaps. Closes his fingers a little. 

John’s breath catches, and his cock twitches, and his mouth opens, teeth releasing his torn lip. 

“You know a stoplight, yeah?” Thomas asks, and he closes his fingers a little more, and John doesn’t understand the question but he nods anyways as his heart jumps in his chest and his cock twitches again. 

“Good. Green means go, good, continue, yeah?” Thomas lets go, and strokes his fingers down John’s throat. 

“Yeah,” John says. Licks his split lip. Tastes blood and sting and feels a little tingly and sharp. 

Thomas closes his hand again, gives John’s heart in his throat a quick squeeze. Releases. 

“Good. Yellow means pause, wait, let’s talk, yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah,” John says again, light, breathy, little spellbound. 

Thomas closes his hand again, squeezes, cuts off John’s air, and John’s cock starts to fill out in earnest, and his breath has nowhere to go so it burns in his lungs and John stares up at Thomas and stays perfectly still and waits until he can breathe again. 

Thomas releases his hand. Pets down John’s throat with his fingertips, so light, so gentle. 

“Good. Red means stop, we’re done, don’t continue, yeah?” He asks. Settles his hand around John’s throat again, but doesn’t squeeze, the gentle weight a threat. 

“Yeah,” John breathes. 

“Good,” Thomas says, and he closes his hand tight, and that little word burns hot under John’s skin, a shaking, a craving, a coming loose of seams, and the air in John’s lungs can’t get past Thomas’ hand and it burns and it burns and John feels like he’s been set on fire and he loves it. 

“Breathe,” Thomas says, and he lets go. 

John inhales, sharp and deep. 

“Good,” Thomas says, and closes his hand again, relentless, firm, squeezing the life out of John’s throat. 

John’s lungs feel full to bursting, and there’s that word again that makes his skin feel like it’s been set on fire, and something deep under his bones _yearns_ for it. He can’t breathe and he can’t breathe and Thomas still doesn’t let go, and John’s mouth pops open and he tries to inhale anyways and he can’t, and he squirms against Thomas’ hand on his neck and the edges of his vision start to go a little fuzzy-

“Breathe,” Thomas says, and he lets go. 

John inhales, sudden gasp of cool air that soothes all the too hot, burning places inside him. 

“Good,” Thomas says, and he closes his hand again. 

John bucks underneath him, strangled sound in his throat, body burning and burning and burning, and he tosses his head and he can’t breathe and his lungs are screaming and his cock is achingly hard against his stomach and the only thing he can see clearly is the close, careful way Thomas is watching his face. 

“Breathe,” Thomas says, and he lets go. 

John inhales, lungs filling, blessed cool relief, and everything does feel real and he feels present, like he knows his bones are bones and his skin is skin and he’s home inside them. 

“Colour?” Thomas asks. 

John tries to catch hold of a word inside his brain and it’s hard, tries to push it out over the tip of his tongue and his lips and it’s slippery and he struggles and his mind feels a little fuzzy but his body feels so damn real, so damn _good_.

“Green,” he finally whispers, hoarse and small on his mangled lips. 

“Good,” Thomas says, and he closes his hand again. 

John thrashes, body lighting up all hot and on fire, lungs screaming, instinct taking over as his body realizes that it needs air, that it likes to breathe, that it doesn’t want to die, and that thought is so startling that it sends a shiver of electricity right through John and his eyes go wide and suddenly he’s crying. 

Thomas lets go immediately. 

“Colour?” He asks. “John are you okay?” 

“Green, green, don’t stop,” John pleads, and he’s begging and he’s crying and he’s _desperate_ and he doesn’t care that Thomas sees this because Thomas _made_ him like this. 

Thomas hesitates. Pets down John’s throat, watches his face.

“John are you-”

“Don’t fucking stop!” John wails, “damn you, don’t stop!” and yeah, he’s shaking now, and tears stream hot down his cheeks, and everything feels too hot, too much, too real, and it’s so _good_. 

Thomas’ hand closes. Sudden, sharp. Cuts off John’s air on a sob.

John’s body arches under Thomas, and his mouth gapes open and his vision swims and spins and everything is burn and fire and real, and his lungs scream for air and his heart hammers in his throat right under Thomas’ hand. 

“Breathe,” Thomas says, and he lets go. 

John takes a deep breath, and marvels at the simple wonder of his lungs filling with air inside his chest. 

“Good,” Thomas says. 

John chokes on a sob, and lies still and his body shakes and shakes and shakes, and Thomas presses a searing kiss to John’s open mouth and it tastes like blood and tears and sharp pain blooming bright across John’s lower lip. 

Thomas tongue strokes into his mouth, heat and want and take, and John moans a little desperately and he arches up against Thomas, wants to melt _inside_ Thomas. He kisses Thomas back like Thomas’ mouth is a lifeline. 

Thomas pulls back. Pets down John’s throat again, and John waits, still and trembling. 

Thomas closes his fingers around John’s throat, light, threatening. 

John takes a shaky breath. 

Thomas lets go. 

“Over,” he says, and shifts out of the way. 

John rolls over onto his belly, and Thomas taps him on the hip. 

“Up on your knees, hands on the headboard,” he murmurs low in John’s ear. 

John’s breath catches in his throat, and he does as he’s told, fingers wrapping tight around the wrought iron headboard, knees spread open for balance. Feels stretched out and exposed and vulnerable this way. 

Thomas presses a kiss to the base of John’s spine. Trails his lips and tongue up the ridges of John’s spine, scrapes with his teeth. Bites into the back of John’s neck and holds on for a moment, makes John’s heart stutter and stop, makes John groan low in his throat. 

“Can I fuck you?” Thomas whispers, right into the wet skin on the back of John’s neck.

John’s skin prickles and goosebumps rise to meet Thomas’ words and John’s head goes loose on his neck, mouth open, eyes closing. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, lets his spine go lax, hips tilting up. 

Thomas reaches across John’s body, broad chest brushing John’s back, and John watches him slide open the bedside table drawer and retrieve a bottle of lube and a condom. 

He strokes his hand down John’s back, kisses the back of his neck where his teeth just were, so soft, lips on the downy hairs there. 

John’s lips part on a soft moan. He hears the cap of the lube bottle open, and then Thomas’ slick fingers stroke down between his cheeks, right over his sensitive rim. 

John’s thighs tremble and he feels wide open and exposed, feels needy and aching and burning up on fire. 

Thomas’ fingertips stroke over his rim, soft, insistent, over and over and over until John is panting, tears dry on his cheeks, mouth wide open, breath tight and hot in his lungs. He feels a little dizzy with it, and he pulls his lower lip back into his mouth and bites down hard. Tastes blood and pushes his hips back against Thomas’ fingers, silently begging. 

Thomas leans over John again, bites into his neck as he slips the tip of one finger inside, teasing, stroking, teeth bearing down hard. 

“Ah, Thomas,” John pants, clenches on Thomas’ fingertip, wants more and more and more. Wants stretch and pain and heat. 

Thomas lets his finger sink in slow, careful stretch that makes John moan, takes John apart, makes John feel alive. 

Thomas’s teeth dig in harder and he moans through them, secret sound to the freckles on the back of John’s neck that John isn’t sure he’s meant to overhear.

Thomas’ finger strokes in and out of him, slow, teasing, almost sweet, over and over until John is rocking back into it, begging for more. 

Thomas wriggles a second finger in, and the stretch is enough to make John’s eyes roll back in his head and he chokes on a moan.

His neck aches under Thomas’ teeth, and he snags his torn lip in his own teeth again and digs in hard, pain and blood and stretch and pleasure all surging hot under his skin. 

Thomas’ fingers stroke and tease and search, curling, until-

“There!” John chokes on a mouthful of bloody lip and his mouth drops open again as Thomas’ fingers brush just so inside him and pleasure blooms like a wildfire inside him. 

Thomas moans louder, and this time John knows he’s supposed to hear it, and he pushes his hips back and holds onto the railing for dear life. 

“Like that? This enough feeling something for you yet?” Thomas whispers, low, taunting, almost mean. 

“No,” John pants, because still his body chants more and more and more, and so Thomas digs his fingers in sharp and sudden, and John _howls_ because there’s no room for it all under his skin anymore. 

Thomas pulls his fingers back, spreads them inside John, stretching him open, then finds that spot inside John again and digs in, greedy, drags another sobbing breath from John’s lungs. 

Again, again, again.

Again, until John’s cock is dripping in the sheets and his face isn’t dry anymore even though he didn’t realize he’d started crying again, and he is all tremble, all shake, all need. 

Thomas’ teeth let go of the back of John’s neck and air kisses the sudden space between their bodies. 

Thomas’ fingers disappear. 

John could die from the emptiness. 

John stays where he is, white knuckled on the headboard, legs shaking and braced, body empty and untouched and aching. 

Thomas’ hand finds John’s belly, flat and fingers splayed, so warm in the face of so much empty, so much ache. Braces into John, holds him steady. 

Thomas’ mouth finds the back of John’s neck again, licks along the purpling teeth marks. 

Thomas’ cock finds John’s hole, and with a little swivel of his hips, Thomas pushes slowly in, inch by inch, stretching, taking, filling John up with heat and want. 

John’s neck goes loose under Thomas’ teeth and he wants to hang onto this feeling forever, the slow glide of Thomas’ cock inside him, filling him up, making all the empty places feel something, stretch and a little sweet side of pain, and it’s all so much, so good, and John feels like he might rip right out of his too tight, too hot skin. 

Thomas stills, fully seated inside John. Kisses the back of his neck, flickers his tongue soft over the downy hairs there. 

Strokes his thumb in a little circle on John’s belly. 

“Colour?” soft, into John’s damp curls. 

“Green,” whispers John, like a prayer. 

“Feeling something, yet?” Thomas asks. 

“More,” John pleads. Trembles. Shakes. 

“Fuck,” Thomas says. 

He bites into John’s neck again and it’s all sharp, all pain, all wet and breaking and edges. Thomas draws back, and plunges forwards again, and the sweet drag of his cock inside John is enough to drop John’s mouth open again, panting moans that rise into the cool morning air. 

Thomas fucks him like he’s trying to break him, hips snapping and driving with punishing strength, and the headboard crushes John’s fingers into the wall and it feels like perfection. 

John loses himself in the rhythm, Thomas’ cock driving into him over and over again, driving heat higher in John’s body, filling him up, stretching his skin to the bursting point. 

Thomas’ hand slides flat up John’s stomach and chest and curls around his throat again, fingertips meeting his lips to complete the circle like a collar. 

“Please,” John sobs, heart hammering in his throat under Thomas’ hand. 

Thomas’ fingers close, lightning fast, steal the breath right from John’s lungs, hold it captive between palm and ribs. 

John feels like he’s been set on fire. 

His eyes snap open and he stares at wrought iron headboard and the purple wall, and his mouth is open but he can’t get any air past Thomas’ fingers, and his vision starts to swim and blur and he squirms against Thomas and then Thomas lets go with his hand and bites down hard with his teeth. 

John chokes on a howl and gasps a great gulp of air and can’t tell pleasure from pain anymore. 

Thomas’ hand closes again, cuts off his air, steals it right from his lungs, and his hips drive harder and faster into John. 

John can’t breathe and he can’t think and his head swims and everything is on fire and he feels a half step away from shattering, and then Thomas’ hips stutter and stall out and he groans loud through his teeth and John’s skin as he comes. 

Everything stills for a moment, and then Thomas reaches up, tugs John’s hands free of the head board, first one, and then the other. Rocks back on his heels and pulls John into his lap.

John’s head falls back on Thomas’ shoulder, body loose and hot against him. 

Thomas’ hand curls around John’s cock, strokes him, and the touch is so simple and soft after everything else that it nearly undoes John right then and there. 

Thomas’ mouth settles over John’s ear, and his fingers tighten and stroke, fast and tight. 

“You’re so beautiful John, look at you, come on babe, wanna watch you come,” Thomas whispers, and it’s like poetry, and John’s hips jerk and he cries out wordlessly as his orgasm slams into him, wave after wave of pleasure wringing his body out. 

Thomas lets John go, lets him slump into a boneless puddle in the blankets, and just stays where he is, looking down at him. 

John stares up at Thomas, breathless and shattered. 

John feels cold and adrift and a little numb, wants Thomas to lie down beside him and pull him close and kiss warmth back into his fingertips. Wants Thomas to keep him soft and safe. Wants Thomas to piece him back together. 

Instead, Thomas just stares at him, and he doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs, and he can’t quite make his tongue push words past his teeth, so he just lies still and stares up at Thomas.

“Is that what you wanted?” Thomas asks, voice sharp, all walls and hurt. 

John opens his mouth. Closes it again. Can’t think, can’t speak, feels rattled loose and taken apart. Feels wide open and needy and doesn’t like the way Thomas is staring down at him like he’s miles and miles away.

“Well?” Thomas presses. 

John nods, because even if it isn’t, it is. 

Thomas stands up suddenly, and walks out. 

Leaves John alone. 

Cold, shaking, John stares at the open door and tangles his fingers in the blankets and it feels like forever before he can make himself sit up and he hates himself for this shaking, hates himself for this liquid need inside him.

By the time Thomas returns, John is dressed, shaking hands clumsily raking his hair back into a ponytail. 

They still, and stare at each other, and John wants a thousand things at once and he can’t reconcile any of them against each other. 

“Get out of my house,” Thomas says, all cold and impossibly far away. 

The bottom drops out of John’s world. 

He says nothing, just turns and heads for the door. Yanks his shoes on. 

Walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aftercare is important guys, pls don't be like these idiots.


	7. Chapter 7

John stumbles home in a dream. 

He doesn’t feel real.

Everything hurts.

He’s still shaking when he locks the apartment door behind him, and he stills for a moment, listening for Lafayette. Hears him in the kitchen, singing away, loud and off key and so happy.

He follows the sound, walks into the kitchen, and there’s Lafayette, dressed in tight jeans and a t-shirt, hair pulled back into a poof, singing away as he makes what looks to John like mostly just a giant mess. 

“Laf,” John says, and it comes out raw and desperate, and before John even really knows he’s doing it, he’s on his knees on the cold kitchen tile with his hands on Lafayette’s thighs and his face in his crotch, nuzzling at his cock, needy whine stuck in his throat. 

“John? What is this?” Lafayette’s hand strokes gentle down the back of John’s head, and he doesn’t stop him, and John feels Lafayette’s cock stir against his cheek. 

“Want to suck your dick, Laf,” John mumbles, and he mouths Lafayette’s hardening cock through his jeans, digs his fingers into Lafayette’s thighs. 

“John, wait,” Lafayette’s fingers brush the back of John’s neck, right over the raw bruise, and John inhales sharply, rubs his cheek over the bulge of Lafayette’s cock. “John. Stop, stop.”

“But you…” John sits back on his heels, looks up at Lafayette. 

Lafayette cups John’s chin in his fingers, and John hates the way he looks down at him like he’s scared he might break. 

“I’m not saying no, John, but please come up here for a moment,” Lafayette says, gentle. 

John swallows hard, doesn’t want to come up there, doesn’t want to talk, to feel, to look at any of this in the sunny light of morning which he knows is exactly what Lafayette wants to do. 

Gets up anyways, because he never could put anything past Laf.

“What brought this on?” Lafayette drops his hand from John’s chin and loops his arm loose around John’s waist, tugs him close. 

John shakes his head, looks away, doesn’t want to look Laf in the face, doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Please just let me suck your cock,” he whispers. 

Lafayette brings his free hand to John’s chin, gently turns John’s face until they’re eye to eye, and rests his forehead up against John’s. Looks right at him. 

“You know you are my very best friend, John, and I love you,” he murmurs, and then he tilts his head and they’re kissing and it’s soft and John’s lip aches and Lafayette’s mouth tastes like raspberries and coffee and safety. 

John leans in, kisses Lafayette back, lets his hand rest on Lafayette’s chest and ignores the way his heart stopped beating at Lafayette’s soft words, hadn’t known he’d needed to hear it so badly he’s fighting back tears all over again. 

Lafayette pulls back, just enough to breathe. 

“Please,” John whispers. 

“Go on, then,” Lafayette says, voice low, hand gentle on John’s cheek. “But you will let me look after you, after.”

“Yes Laf,” John breathes, and he sinks back to his knees, slow and liquid. 

Lafayette undoes his jeans, tugs his underwear down enough to pull his half hard cock free.

John stroked his hands up Lafayette’s thighs, looks up at him for a moment, but there’s that look again, brow furrowed, like he’s still scared that John might break.

So John closes his eyes, and he places a kiss on the head of Lafayette’s cock and then parts his lips and sucks the head into his mouth. Flickers his tongue over it and melts at the sound Lafayette makes. 

Lafayette’s fingers curl into John’s hair, tug it free from its ponytail, and tangle in it.

John bobs his head, works Lafayette’s cock deeper into his mouth, all slick sounds and wet heat. He finds something almost grounding in the heavy weight of it on his tongue, and huffs a soft breath as he takes him deeper, swallows around him, strokes his tongue over the underside. 

“Oh John, your mouth,” Lafayette murmurs, fingers tugging gently at his hair.

John moans in response, pulls back to flicker his tongue over the head and then swallows him deep again. 

Loses himself in the rhythm of it, in Lafayette’s smell, the taste of him on his tongue, the way he fills up his mouth. Wants to drift back to feeling real again, and can almost get there on the salt sting of his split lip.

Almost, almost, almost.

Tightens his lips, curls his tongue, bobs his head a little faster.

“John, John, I’m going to come,” Lafayette pants, twists his fingers tighter in John’s hair as his hips hitch, cock pushing deeper into John’s mouth.

John’s mouth floods with come, and he swallows it down, tongue lapping at the head of Lafayette’s cock until Lafayette pulls his hands free of John’s hair and tilts his hips back, pulling away.

John lets him go, sinks to the floor with his mouth soft and open, and he’s shaking again and he feels blown wide open and he needs so much.

Lafayette fixes his jeans and looks down at John for a long moment before reaching down to help him up.

“Come on sweetheart, I’m taking you to bed,” he says, and John lets Lafayette’s careful hands help him up off the floor and he stumbles along beside him down the hall to Lafayette’s room, and crawls up onto the bed, hair falling over one shoulder.

“John!” Lafayette sucks in a sharp breath and then he’s there beside John, brushing John’s hair away from the back of his neck and brushing his fingertips over the deep purple bite mark on the back of John’s neck. “What happened?”

John sinks into the bedding, rolls onto his side and looks up at Lafayette’s wife, worried eyes.

“Thomas. It’s okay, Laf, I wanted him to,” John trembles at the memory, skin prickling and feeling so lost.

Lafayette settles onto the bed beside John, eyes never leaving his face. 

“Shh, easy,” Lafayette’s hands reach out and slowly pull John’s shirt off over his head, stroke gentle down John’s stomach and leave goosebumps in their wake. “Were you safe? Did you have safe words?” Lafayette’s hands work John’s jeans open, slide them gently off and discard them over the edge of the bed. Lafayette’s hands stroke up John’s legs, gentle, light.

“Yeah,” John breathes, feels fractured and not quite real.

“Did he care for you after, John?” Lafayette’s fingers stroke up John’s stomach, so, so soft, leave John trembling in their wake, cock hard and aching in his underwear.

“No,” John says, and he thinks about how Thomas pushes and pushes and how John takes and doesn’t give anything back and he thinks about letting Thomas care for him the way he did last night and it makes him feel one part needy and three parts nauseous and he bites down hard on that split lip and licks blood from his teeth.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Come here, let me fix it,” Lafayette murmurs, slides his hand to John’s lower back and pulls him in close, then skates his fingers down to brush over John’s cock through his underwear.

John’s breath catches in his throat and his hips push forwards.

“Laf,” he whispers, feels like he’s coming undone.

Lafayette leans in, kisses John’s forehead, tugs John’s underwear down and curls his fingers around John’s cock. 

“Shh, that’s it, good boy, I’ve got you,” Lafayette murmurs, strokes John with expert touches. “Just relax, let it happen sweetheart.”

John’s mouth falls open and he rocks his hips gently into Lafayette’s hand, orgasm already building, need and want heavy in his bones.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay John, I want you to feel good,” Lafayette keeps talking, soft voice soothing and grounding, hand pulling John along closer and closer to completely shattering and John craves it, he needs it.

“Laf!” He chokes out, and then his vision really does go fuzzy as his orgasm crashes over him, wave after wave of pleasure, spilling hot into Lafayette’s hand, and John feels numb and lost and he’s barely aware that Lafayette stops stroking him, barely aware that a blanket settles over his body, that Lafayette wraps an arm over him and pulls him in close, barely aware that his heart is still beating.

~

John wakes slowly to the sound of Lafayette’s voice, talking in hushed, rapid fire French. 

John blinks slowly in the dim lamp light, tucked carefully underneath one of Lafayette’s plush throws. Lafayette is standing in front of his mirror, shirt in his hand, phone cradled to one ear. 

John feels warm and safe and not quite real, heavy boned and light headed. 

He watches Lafayette sway to one side, hip jutting out, head tilted. Can’t understand a word he’s saying, but can tell he’s annoyed. 

Abruptly, Lafayette’s tone changes. Softens. The hard set of his shoulders and hip softens, and his hand drops to his side, t-shirt held loose. Something almost sorrowful in the words now, and John still doesn’t understand, but then Lafayette glances over at him and their eyes meet. 

Lafayette smiles a soft smile, says something quiet into the phone, and hangs up. 

“Hello,” he pulls the shirt on over his head, and sits on the edge of the bed. Rests a hand light on John’s hip. “How are you feeling?”

John looks up at Lafayette, and smiles a small smile, because for now everything feels quiet and wrapped in down, soft lamp light and warm blankets and Lafayette’s gentle way of handling him. 

“Okay,” he says, voice low. 

“Do you need anything?” Lafayette asks. Reaches up and tucks a stray curl behind John’s ear. 

“No, I’m okay,” John says, a little more solid, a little more real. 

“Good,” Lafayette leans in and kisses John’s temple, and John smiles. “Are you coming to the show tonight?” 

John shakes his head slightly, the thought of getting up and showing up and making like he’s not still shaken into a million tiny pieces inside too much to bear when Lafayette’s bed is so soft and warm. 

“No. Sorry Laf… I just…” John trails off, and chews his lower lip. 

‘Hush, it’s fine John. Are you alright by yourself?” Lafayette lets his hand rest on John’s hip again, and John nods. 

“Yeah. I’m tired, I’m just going to sleep, I think,” John says. Curls a little tighter, watches Lafayette stand back up, and can’t bring himself to so much as sit up. 

“Okay. Please call me if you need anything John, okay?” Lafayette tugs his jacket on, and gives John one last, long look. 

“Promise,” John says. 

He watches Lafayette leave the room and rolls over, blanket snug around his body. Closes his eyes, lets the quiet settle over him, and steal him back to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

John lies on Lafayette’s bed in silence and stares at the ceiling. He can hear music and laughter in the rest of the apartment, but he feels like his body is full of sand. 

The room is lit in the soft glow from the bedside lamp, and the throw blanket strewn over John’s hips is soft and warm. 

He feels like he could stay here forever, mind drifting, half finished drink on the bedside table that Lafayette brought him when he got home. Jack and coke is sticky sweet on his tongue, and John turns his head, watches sweat bead on the outside of the glass, lit up by the soft lamplight. 

He thinks about getting up again. Stretches, slow and lazy, bare skin against the soft comforter. 

The door opens, and John doesn’t look, assumes it’s Lafayette. Stretches out his fingers towards his drink, can’t quite reach but doesn’t want to move. He hears the door close again, shutting out the sounds of revelry. 

“John…” Thomas’ voice sends a thrill through John’s body from top to bottom. 

“Thomas,” John twists, and his fingertips brush the wet sides of the glass. He twists a little more, blanket slipping down his hips, can almost reach to curl his fingers around it-

Thomas picks up the glass, and looks down at John, something dark and unreadable on his face. 

“Need something?” He asks, voice low, gaze roving over John’s naked body. 

John stares up at Thomas, goosebumps rising on his skin at the heat in Thomas’ gaze, and he licks his lips and nods, and his cock stirs beneath the throw blanket. 

“What do you need?” Thomas asks. Dips his finger into John’s drink, and swirls it lazily. 

“Drink,” John says, and his voice sounds like a rude awakening to his own ears, hoarse and low and grating against the lazy, gold silence he’d fallen into. 

Thomas smirks. Takes his finger out of the glass and takes a sip of the drink himself. 

“Is that how you ask for something you want?” He says. 

John huffs in annoyance, watches Thomas’ throat move as he swallows.

“Please?” he says, too tired to muster up any fight from under his bones. 

Thomas dips his finger in the drink again. Stirs, ice clinking softly against the glass. Slips his finger between John’s parted lips and into the wet warmth of his mouth. His finger is cold and wet and sweet, and John can’t help himself, he closes his lips around it and sucks it clean, tongue curling around it, salt and rum and coke and Thomas’ skin. 

Wants more and more and more. 

Thomas plucks an ice cube from the glass, and drops it gently in the centre of John’s chest. 

John shivers, and he sucks in his chest, and the ice melts on his skin and then Thomas leans down and licks it off of him, mouth hot and soft. When he lifts his head just enough to look at John, there’s nothing but heat between them. 

“I’m supposed to be apologizing to you right now, but I just want to kiss you, and I can’t say I’m sorry about that,” Thomas breathes. He offers John his drink, and drops his mouth back to John’s damp chest. 

John’s breath catches in his throat, and he takes his drink back, pushes up on his elbow and drains it in one smooth motion. 

Thomas takes the glass back. Reaches over and sets it on the floor, and climbs onto the bed, knees on either side of John’s hips. 

John looks up at him, and his heart twists, sends a stab of hurt through John that’s so sharp it makes him gasp. He reaches up for Thomas because Thomas is closest and Thomas is looking at him like he wants to eat him alive, and John thinks he might just let him. 

Thomas leans in and kisses John, mouth sticky sweet with coke and rum. Thomas licks into John’s mouth and John winds his fingers into Thomas’ hair and tugs him in deeper, holds him there, kisses him back like it might save him. 

Thomas’ hand strokes down John’s bare torso, finds his cock through the plush throw blanket, and rubs, slow, teasing. 

John arches into the touches, feels hot and cold at the same time, tightens his hand in Thomas’ hair like a lifeline. 

Thomas pulls back from the kiss, looks down at John for a long moment.

“Colour?” He whispers.

“Green,” John breathes back, no hesitation, just wants Thomas close. 

“Good boy,” Thomas trails his wet mouth down John’s neck, bites into his collarbone, licks into the hollow at the base of John’s neck. 

John lights up from the inside out with warmth. 

He moans, open mouthed, keenly aware of every raw place under his skin. 

Thomas bites and sucks and licks his way down John’s chest and stomach. His hand strokes John’s cock through the blanket, and John is helpless helpless helpless beneath him. 

Thomas tugs the blanket down just enough to get his mouth over the sharp edge of John’s hip bone. Sucks and teases and scrapes with his teeth until John is squirming beneath him. 

When he pulls off, there’s a dark purple bruise shining wet on John’s skin. 

Thomas tugs the blanket away, drops it over the side of the bed. Looks down John’s body, and runs the tip of one finger up John’s hard cock. 

“How’d you get so gorgeous?” Thomas drawls, voice soft, voice quiet, little awed. Looks up at John again, and John wants to cry at all the space between them, and the way softness just feels like a bruise. 

Thomas shifts down the bed, pushes John’s legs apart until he can settle between them, and curls his fingers around John’s cock. 

“John,” Thomas says his name like a prayer, and John’s heart skips a beat and he closes his eyes. 

“Please,” John whispers to the ceiling.

“Please what?” Thomas breathes. Kisses John’s inner thighs. Bites down on the soft flesh there, sucks another dark bruise into John’s skin. 

“Please,” John repeats, can’t articulate how he wants Thomas to fill him up, rip him apart, tear his skin from his bones and lick him raw. 

Thomas huffs, bites down harder on the fresh new bruise, and slides his free hand under John’s hips, tips him up and open. 

John’s breath catches, and then Thomas’ tongue is stroking right over his hole and he feels like he’s been electrocuted, Thomas’ name ripping from his throat on a desperate cry. 

John tilts his hips up, can’t swallow back the breathy moans that crawl up his throat at the way Thomas’ hand strokes his cock, slow and lazy, and the way Thomas’ tongue swirls over his hole, insistent. He tugs at Thomas’ hair, lets his head tilt back, mouth open, wants all of this and more, all the time. This gold light, this softness that feels like a bruise. This near shattering that surges in his blood every time Thomas touches him. 

Falling apart never felt so sweet as it does with Thomas’ tongue wriggling inside him, wet and hot and almost delicate. 

Thomas moans, and tightens his fingers, stroking John’s cock tighter and faster. 

John squirms, can’t help it, needs all of this and more and more and more, wants to drown in the heat that builds inside him with every stroke of Thomas’ hand, every flicker of his tongue. 

“Thomas, Thomas,” John pants, pleasure coiling tight in his belly. 

Too soon, John’s hips are jerking, pushing up into the wet heat of Thomas’ mouth, and he spills hot over Thomas’ tight fist. 

Thomas keeps stroking John’s cock, keeps laving his tongue over his hole, over and over, until John is burning up with over sensitivity and trying desperately to wriggle away. 

“Thomas, stop, stop,” he begs, light laugh on his lips, whole body twitching. 

Finally, Thomas lets him go, nips both of his thighs, and raises his head to look at John, panting and limp against the bedspread. 

John looks back at Thomas, feels spent and loose and warm and safe. 

“I’m sorry, John, for this morning,” Thomas says, and it’s honest and vulnerable and it brushes up against all of the raw places under John’s skin and it makes them ache. 

John shakes his head a little, doesn’t want to acknowledge the bruising. 

“What do you want, John?” Thomas asks again, and it sounds a little raw, and John closes his eyes for a minute because he doesn’t want to acknowledge the bruising, god damn it. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers back, and it sounds like pain and it sounds like bruising despite John’s best attempts to swallow it down, and just like that Thomas is gone, up from the bed and taking all the warmth with him. 

“John…” Thomas huffs, lifts shaking hands and drops them again, like he wants to do something with them and doesn’t know what. 

“Why do you keep asking me that?” John says. 

Thomas shakes his head, tugs open the drawer of Lafayette’s bedside table and tugs a handful of kleenex out of the box. 

Wipes John’s stomach down with all the care in the world, but won’t look at his face. 

Tosses the kleenex in the garbage can. 

Picks up the empty glass. 

Tugs the throw blanket back over John’s body. 

Leans down and kisses his forehead. 

“Because,” and now he looks at him, looks right at him like he _knows_ , despite all of John’s trying to keep it behind clenched teeth, “because I know what I want, John.”

Thomas straightens up and walks towards the door, and John watches him go, feels like he couldn’t move if he wanted to. 

“When you figure out what it is you want, John, tell me. Until that happens, stay the fuck away from me.” He yanks open the door. Yanks it shut behind him. 

Leaves John alone. 

John stares at the ceiling again, and thinks about how maybe that was Thomas reaching out a hand to him, offering him something ripe to take. Thinks about how maybe that something feels like a bruise right now, but might not always. Thinks about how maybe that something might someday just feel soft. 

Thinks about how far he would have to reach just to get halfway there. Thinks about how heavy his bones are, how much it would take just to stretch his fingers towards Thomas in the shape of something honest…

Thinks about how much it would hurt when Thomas finally does tear his skin off him, and discovers nothing worth looking at inside.

Thinks about being left raw and vulnerable and torn to shreds again. 

Stays right where he is.

~

Lafayette slips into the bedroom as the sun is beginning to peek through the curtains. Pauses, and crinkles up his nose.

“You had sex in here,” he says, and John watches him strip off his clothes and toss them at the laundry hamper - missing, mostly. Watches him take his hair out of its poof, and lift up the covers to climb into bed. 

John rolls onto his side, looks at Lafayette balefully until Lafayette huffs, and tugs at the blankets until they slide out from under John and he can throw them over him instead, pouting the whole while. 

“Yeah,” John says, and he doesn’t sound sorry because he’s not, even with Lafayette pouting at him with wide liquid brown eyes. 

“You did not invite me,” Lafayette says, and he tugs John close with a loose arm over his waist, and John laughs. 

“I’m too tired for threesomes, Laf,” he says, rolls lazily against Lafayette and nuzzles into his neck. 

Lafayette snorts, and kisses the top of John’s head. 

“You wouldn’t have to do anything. Thomas can fuck your ass and I can fuck your mouth and you can just lie there and look pretty, no?” Lafayette says, and John’s heart skips a beat and he shakes his head and makes a desperate little sound in his throat. “Shh, hey, it’s alright John.” Lafayette smooths his hand down John’s back, kisses his forehead. “You’re alright. You do not like my idea?”

John shakes his head. Likes it very much, only…

“It’s too much,” he mumbles. 

“Alright, alright.” Lafayette kisses his forehead again, tucks the blankets in tighter around him. “You know he cares about you, John. Would it be so bad to let him?” 

Lafayette’s words drift quiet into the early morning air, and John can’t breathe around the sudden lump in his throat, and he doesn’t have an answer.


	9. Chapter 9

John Laurens sits at the bar, nursing a jack and coke.

On the outside, he is all bronze skin and freckles, all big laugh, all light heart.

John Laurens sits at the bar, nursing an open wound. 

On the inside, he is all want and want and want. 

He watches Herc across the bar, curled into a booth with Maria and Peggy both, tight tangle of limbs and softness and kisses three ways. John wonders when that happened, how he missed all of their mixed signals melting into something honest and warm. 

_I See France_ goes on in five songs, and John can see Lafayette with Eliza on the dance floor, whirling her around while Alex argues with Aaron in the corner, and sure, John could go dance with Angelica or bother James at the merch table, or even cut in and steal Eliza to dance with himself. 

Instead, he gets up and weaves his way back stage, pushes into the dimly lit, crowded space, boxes and equipment piled high. There’s not much room to move back here. 

Thomas sits by himself in a chair with his head tipped back against a crate. Headphones on. Eyes closed. 

John stops for a moment and just looks at him. Watches him mouth lyrics to himself with no sound, hands folded in his lap, tension in every line of his body. 

John moves closer, pulled by some invisible force right to Thomas, time and time and time again. 

Stops in front of him, and he swears he doesn’t know how Thomas knows he’s here, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a little smile, and he stops mouthing lyrics. 

“Do you ever feel like you’re the only one who takes anything seriously?” Thomas asks without opening his eyes. 

“No?” John says, because John doesn’t take anything seriously anymore. “Can you even hear me?” He asks. 

He steps forward, between Thomas’ lazily spread legs, and kneels on the dirty floor. Runs his hands up Thomas’ thighs, leans in, can’t resist the way he smells, the way his body feels under his hands, the way his fingers twitch. 

Thomas reaches up and tugs the headphones off one ear, looks down at John. 

“You figure out what you want yet?” He drawls, lazy, sharp edged.

“Right now I just want to suck your dick,” John says, looks up at Thomas with parted lips, the heat between them just as strong as ever. 

Thomas raises an eyebrow, and stares at John for a moment. 

“It’s better than ‘I don’t know’, I guess,” he shrugs. Undoes his jeans and pulls his half hard cock free. Shifts a little to spread his legs a little wider. “Go on, then.”

John watches Thomas’ face as he leans in, strokes his tongue flat over the head of Thomas’ cock. 

Thomas watches him for a moment, then pulls the headphone back over his ear. Lets his head fall back, eyes closed, hands limp at his sides. 

John sucks the head of Thomas’ cock into his mouth, watching his face. Lets his tongue lap over it, over and over again, then tightens his lips and sucks Thomas’ cock deep into his mouth. Lets it hit the back of his throat, soft choking sound and breath huffed through his nose. 

One of Thomas’ hands threads into John’s hair, gentle, light. 

John moans at the slight contact, and pulls off, tongue stroking over the head of Thomas’ cock. Swallows him back down again, eyes closing. 

He loses himself in it, wet heat and the taste of Thomas heavy on his tongue. Pulls out all the stops, burning in his chest at the way Thomas isn’t looking at him, listening to him, isn’t even reacting beyond the taste of precome in the back of John’s throat. 

His cheeks hollow, soft huffed breaths from his nose, and he bobs his head faster, mouth tight, too aware that the set changes soon. 

The first soft groan from Thomas’ lips sends a wave of heat through John. His fingers dig into Thomas’ thighs and he whines in response even though Thomas can’t hear him. He lets his tongue flicker over the head of Thomas’ cock again, lapping up precome. Swallows him down, wants more and more and more. 

Feels like he could stay here forever, on his knees in front of Thomas, offering his mouth, offering his body. 

Offering anything Thomas might take. 

Thomas’ fingers tighten in John’s hair and he moans again, louder, hips pushing up into John’s mouth. 

John swallows Thomas’ cock down again, groans happily when Thomas’ fingers tug at his hair. 

“Gonna come,” Thomas whispers. 

John moans encouragement, bobs his head as Thomas’ hips jerk and John’s mouth floods with come. 

He swallows, and pulls off slowly. Licks the last bead of come from Thomas’ cock, and rocks back on his heels. 

Thomas tugs the headphones down around his neck, and tucks himself back into his jeans. Looks down at John and shakes his head a little. 

“Get out of here, I’ve got a show to play,” he says. 

John blinks, surprised. 

Thomas stands up, steps neatly around John. 

“Well? What do you expect, Laurens. I told you to stay away from me,” Thomas stretches, arms over his head, shirt riding up over his toned belly, and picks up a clipboard. 

John stares for a moment longer, frozen on his knees on the dirty backstage floor. 

The sound of Aaron’s voice sends him scrambling to his feet.

“Thomas…” John steps towards him, and Thomas turns away. 

“Fuck off, Laurens.”

John stares at Thomas’ back until Aaron comes around the corner and fixes him with a funny look. 

“What are you doing back here, John?” He asks, frowning in confusion. 

John snorts. Brushes past Thomas and Aaron on his way out.

“Nothing important.”

~

John returns to the bar. 

Nurses another drink.

Nurses another wound.

 _I See France_ comes on, and there’s Thomas and he’s beautiful. All power, all energy, and all that exists of John is _want_.

He watches the set with his drink to his lips, captivated by Thomas. The way he moves on stage. The way he holds the microphone. The way his hips move when he grinds up on Aaron during one sultry number. 

“Hey,” a soft, feminine voice shakes John from his reverie. 

He looks over, and blinks in surprise at Maria, all soft curls, all red lips, all shy smile. He’s not sure he’s ever spoken more than two words to her, but he smiles gratefully when she hands him a new drink. 

“Hey. Thanks,” he says. Sips his new drink. 

“Does he know?” She asks, soft, eyes on the stage.

“Huh?” John blinks at Maria, head tilting to the side.

“Thomas,” she says. Glances at John out of the corner of her eye and sips her drink. 

“No,” John says, edge in his voice. He takes a big swallow of his drink, and suddenly wishes she hadn’t come over here. 

Maria sighs, and leans against the bar next to John, her eyes back on the stage.

“You know… after everything that happened with James, and how I almost wrecked things for Alex and Eliza… I didn’t really think I deserved anything good in my life.” She pauses, and takes a slow sip of her drink. “Thing is… by holding myself back from the people who wanted to love me, I was deciding what they did or didn’t deserve, without ever letting them have a say in it.”

John watches Maria look over at Peggy and Hercules, tangled close on the dance floor. 

“And that’s not fair,” she says, quiet. “I don’t get to decide what other people deserve.”

She looks at John again, and her smile is all sweet, all wistful, soft glow lighting her from the inside out. 

“Forgive yourself, John, and let him love you if he wants to. It’s worth it,” she stretches up, presses a shy kiss to John’s cheek, and sways back out into the crowd, drink held above her head. 

John watches her spin, watches her laugh, watches her land graceless and soft in Peggy and Hercules’ embrace.

Watches them gather her close, watches them laugh, watches them love each other. 

Throws back the rest of his drink, orders another, and lets his gaze find Thomas again, moth to a flame. 

~

John takes a shot every time looking at Thomas makes his heart skip a beat. 

John takes a shot every time looking at Thomas makes him burn up inside with want. 

Four songs later, the show closes, and John has lost track of how many shots he took before the bartender cut him off and shoved a glass of water in his hand. The room sways and dips. The lights come on. 

John slips down from his barstool and knocks it over in the process. Falls, trying to pick it up, just as Lafayette and Thomas come out from the back, laughing at something. 

“Are you coming back to our place, Thomas?” Lafayette asks. 

John scrambles to his feet, hangs onto the bar for dear life, and manages to right the barstool too. When he straightens up, Thomas is staring at him with an expression of disdain on his face. 

“No. Not tonight, Laf, sorry,” he says, quiet. 

John holds onto the bar, and sways, and looks at Thomas like Thomas is a lifeline. 

Thomas looks away. 

John hears Lafayette say something to Thomas in French that he doesn’t understand, and then Thomas is walking away, and John stares at his retreating back. 

“John?” Lafayette comes up beside him, touches his shoulder. 

John looks at Lafayette, then back at the closing door, then back at Lafayette again. 

Lafayette looks so sad, and so worried, and for a moment all John wants to do is bury his face in Lafayette’s chest and let Lafayette take him home and take him to bed and make everything feel good for a little while.

But with Lafayette, it would never be more than just for a little while, and isn’t that why John never went there, before? 

“You can’t make him wait forever, John,” Lafayette says gently. Touches his fingers to John’s face, and lets them drop. 

“I’m scared,” John admits. Of rejection, of pain, of not being enough.

“It’s okay,” Lafayette says. “Do it anyways.”

John looks at Lafayette, and he looks back at the closed door. He looks at Alex and Eliza, hand in hand and content. Looks at Herc and Peggy and Maria, helping each other with their coats, laughing and smiling. 

Looks back at Lafayette and shakes his head. Sways a little. 

“Ready Laf?!” Hercules shouts from across the room, all exuberance, all joy. 

“Ready!” Lafayette calls back as Aaron and John Adams come out from backstage, ready to go. 

John takes a step back, thinks of Thomas’ back disappearing out the door, and knows he can’t stand to see him walk away like that again. 

Lafayette turns back to John as the rest of the group catches up to them, Angelica and Eliza holding hands now while Alex picks a playful argument with Aaron. 

John shakes his head, turns to go. 

Lafayette blows him a kiss. 

John steps out into the city, and by now he knows the way to Thomas’ apartment like it’s his true North. He picks up a drunken jog, thinks maybe he can catch Thomas before he gets there. 

He does, just barely. 

Crashes into Thomas from behind just as they turn the corner onto Thomas’ street, and nearly sends them both flying. 

“Thomas!” John pants, breathless. 

“John what the fuck, what are you doing here?!” Thomas catches himself, barely, and whirls to glare at John. 

“I followed you,” John says. He stumbles against Thomas, and Thomas catches him automatically, slips an arm around John’s waist, and guides him down the street to his building. 

“Obviously. What do you want, John?” Thomas swipes his keycard, guides John through the door, and leads him into the elevator. 

“You,” John says, without missing a beat. 

Thomas looks at John with raised eyebrows as the elevator starts to move. 

“You sure about that?” He asks. 

“Yes,” John says. “I know you hate me, but…”

“I don’t hate you,” Thomas cuts in. 

“What?” John blinks, tilts his head. “You said you did.”

Thomas closes his eyes. Breathes out a long breath. Opens them again and shakes his head at John. 

“I lied. I don’t hate you. I never hated you. Look, John, if this is what you really want, if you really mean that… I need to be sure we’re on the same page here.” Thomas reaches out and cups John’s cheek. Leans in and kisses him so softly that it makes John want to cry. “So we’re going to go inside, and go to bed, and we’re going to talk about all of this in the morning, okay?”

John leans into Thomas. Closes his eyes. Tries not to shake and shake with all this wanting. 

“Okay,” he says, because he owes Thomas that much.


	10. Chapter 10

John wakes up alone.

The bed is cold, weak sunlight filtering in the huge window.

John stretches, and reaches for the glass of water and Advil on the bedside table. He sits up slowly and takes the pills. Remembers, for the first time, how he got here.

Remembers Thomas steadying him by his hips while he changes into the purple pajama pants and soft gray tank top. Remembers Thomas tucking him in and kissing him sweetly goodnight. 

Remembers Thomas leaving him alone, refusing to stay.

John gets up, pulls the loose pajama pants back up his hips, and pads quietly to the bedroom door. 

He walks out into the living room, and blinks at Thomas, stretched out on his back on the couch, arm hanging over the side. He’s tangled up in several throw blankets, bare chested, sound asleep.

John stares at him for a long moment, feels all kinds of twisted up inside.

He’s not ready to face any of this, heart pounding hard in his chest, throat dry. Instead, he pads into the large, airy kitchen, and starts up the coffee machine. He opens the cupboards, pulls two mugs down and sets them quietly on the counter. Stops for a moment and just breathes deep, taking in the smell of fresh coffee.

He leans against the counter and waits, listens to the coffee pour into the pot, soaks in the early morning peace.

When the coffee finishes, John pours two mugs full, and sets them on a tray. He finds a dish of sugar, and a small carton of cream, and adds them both to the tray. Digs two spoons from a drawer, and takes a deep breath.

He carries it all back to the living room and sets it quietly on the coffee table. 

Looks down at Thomas, sleeping soundly, and leans in to the way his heart turns over in his chest.

How sweet it feels to just give in.

Carefully, John climbs onto the couch, straddles Thomas’ hips and leans down to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet and warm.

Thomas stirs beneath him, mumbles something soft and sleep thick, and opens one eye.

“Hi,” he says, and John’s heart flips over again, and he lets it.

“Why’d you sleep out here?” John asks, hands resting lightly on Thomas’ bare chest.

“Because I want to talk about this, John. Really talk about it,” Thomas says. “I had to draw a line somewhere and I didn’t know how else to do it.”

John nods, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. Fear of not being nearly enough for Thomas like a lead weight in his gut.

“Okay,” John says.

“I’m done asking you this, John. What do you want?” Thomas closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them again, looks up at John, watching him intently.

John takes a deep breath and looks down at Thomas. His heart skips a beat and he lets it. His heart tries to seize hard on this and fuck it, he lets it. 

“You,” John says, meeting Thomas’ gaze head on.

“Really, John? Do you know what you’re saying when you say that? Because I’m not just talking drunken three am fucks,” Thomas shifts, propping his head up on his arm, body solid underneath John.

“I mean it. All of it,” John says, a little breathless, heart beating too fast.

“Are you sure? Because I’m talking Sunday morning brunch dates where you don’t get drunk and walk out on me. I’m talking walks in the park and quiet evenings at home watching movies. I’m talking trips home to Virginia and meeting the families and arguing about groceries.” Thomas takes a deep breath, his gaze flicking away from John for a moment, and then back again. “I’m not saying we need to be engaged tomorrow, but I’m saying I want to give this a real shot at being a real thing and if you’re not all in for all of that then I’m all out, okay?” 

John stares down at Thomas, and he doesn’t understand why Thomas would want all of that with him, but he didn’t know he wanted it until Thomas lay it all out on the table for the taking. 

He thinks about how he doesn’t believe that good things can happen for him. He thinks about how this doesn’t feel real, it just feels like a dream. He thinks about how he’s not sure that anyone has ever made a conscious decision to _choose_ him before. He thinks about how he doesn’t deserve it. 

He doesn’t say any of those things, and instead stops bracing for the fallout, and smiles, and nods. 

“Yes,” he says. Thinks about how he knows love won’t save him, but maybe it’s as good a place as any to start. 

Thomas reaches up, cups John’s cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing gentle over John’s freckles. 

John leans into that touch, wants to lean into all of it, forever. 

“Look, Thomas…” he says, still nervous, still a little shaking inside that this is too good to be true, “I’m no good at this. I’d be lying if I said it’s going to be easy, that I know how any of this really works… but I want to try, with you.”

Thomas smiles, and he’s all soft and open vulnerability beneath John, and John is struck again by just how tense Thomas usually is, compared to how relaxed he looks right now.

“That’s all I’m asking, John. I’m no expert either, obviously.” Thomas laughs softly, and John’s heart skips three beats at the sound. “I’m just asking that we give this a real, honest try.”

“Okay,” John says. 

Thomas grins, and pulls his hand back from John’s face. Holds it up, pinky out, between them. 

“Boyfriends?” he asks. 

John laughs, but he hooks his pinky with Thomas’, and squeezes gently.

“Boyfriends,” he says.

Thomas pulls their linked hands down, presses a soft kiss to John’s pinky. 

“It’s your job as my boyfriend to kiss me good morning,” he says, suggestive lilt to his voice. 

John grins, and unhooks their pinkies to stroke his hand down Thomas’ chest.

“Is that so?” he slips his hand beneath the blankets, strokes Thomas’ hip. 

“Yes, get down here, asshole.” Thomas reaches up, tries to tug John down by the back of his neck. 

John lets himself get pulled, melts into Thomas with a happy sigh. 

“You’re not allowed to call me that anymore,” he murmurs against Thomas’ lips, “it’s like, a boyfriend law, or something.”

“Stop talking, Laurens,” Thomas retorts quietly.

John laughs, and he leans in and then he’s kissing Thomas and everything is soft and warm and bathed in early morning glow. 

Thomas’ hand strokes down John’s back, tugs his tank top up, and spreads flat on his lower back. Thomas kisses John deeper, licks into his mouth with a soft groan. 

John pulls back just enough to shuck his tank top off, tosses it over the back of the couch. He leans back in, kisses Thomas deep and slow, and marvels at how his heart settles back down into his chest where it belongs. 

Thomas’ other hand settles on John’s bare back, strokes over his soft skin. He kisses John deeper, and it feels like coming home, and John wonders why he ever tried to resist this. 

John tangles one hand in Thomas’ hair, lets himself turn to liquid and heat in Thomas’ arms. 

Thomas shifts beneath him, hips arching up, undercurrent of need creeping into their kiss. John can feel Thomas growing hard, and he moans soft into Thomas’ mouth, lets his hips roll a little. 

Thomas’ hand slips lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of John’s pajama pants. He catches John’s lower lip in his teeth and tugs playfully, one finger stroking down between John’s cheeks to tease lightly at his hole. 

John’s breath catches in his throat and he tilts his hips back into the soft, lazy swirl of Thomas’ finger. 

Thomas lets go of John’s lip, and John nudges his chin up, kisses down his neck, wants to spend the rest of his life exploring Thomas’ body with his mouth. 

“I want to feel my cock inside you,” Thomas murmurs, and he teases the tip of his finger inside John. 

John moans at the suggestion, clenching around Thomas’ fingertip. 

“Please,” he whispers back, all soft and pliant, all want and heat. 

Thomas slips his finger back out, taps John lightly on the ass. 

“Go get lube and a condom,” he says, and John groans because he doesn’t want to step away from this soft warmth. 

“Why do I have to get up,” John whines. 

“You’re on top,” Thomas swats John’s hip gently. 

John huffs, but he gets up. Walks down the hall on legs that aren’t quite steady, and retrieves the bottle of lube and a condom from Thomas’ bedside table. 

When he returns, the throw blankets are tossed over the back of the couch, and Thomas’ pajama pants are down over his hips. Thomas’ cock is in his hand and he’s stroking himself, slow, lazy. He turns his head and gives John a lopsided grin. 

John could stand here all day, lube and condom forgotten in his hand, weak kneed at the sight of Thomas splayed out before him, just for him. 

“See something you like?” Thomas drawls. 

“Yeah,” John says, breathless, captivated. Can’t believe Thomas is real and here and wants _him_ of all people. 

John sets the lube and condom down on the arm of the couch, and tugs the purple plaid pajama pants down his hips. Kicks them off, and straddles Thomas’ hips again. 

“Come here,” Thomas breathes. Reaches above himself for the lube with one hand, and strokes the other down John’s back. 

John leans back down, melts into the warmth of Thomas’ body, and kisses him again with a desperate little sound. 

Thomas reaches above his head for the bottle of lube, and he kisses John back like he wants to own him, and John wants to let him, for now and for forever. John wants to drown in this gold glow feeling. Never thought he’d find it without alcohol or drugs or pain, but here it is in Thomas’ mouth kissing him back, in Thomas’ hands stroking down his body. Here it is in Thomas, offering up a safe place to land, a safe place to stay. Here it is, and John grabs hold with both hands cupping Thomas’ face and his tongue licking into Thomas’ mouth, and he’s pretty sure he never wants to let go. 

Thomas’ hand on John’s lower back presses down, and John’s hips rock down, cock rubbing up against Thomas’ cock, and it feels like heaven. 

John kisses down Thomas’ neck, bites gently into his collarbone and sucks at the skin there. He groans loudly and tips his hips up when Thomas’ slicked up fingers find his hole again. Thomas teases little strokes over and over and over until John is pressing back into his fingers, desperate for more and more and more. 

Thomas gives it to him, gently presses the tip of one finger inside the tight heat of John’s hole. He pumps his finger in and out, gentle, slow, deeper and deeper until he can curl his finger just _so_ -

Sparks burst behind John’s eyes and he lets go of Thomas’ collarbone with a wet, sucking sound and presses his face into Thomas’ neck. Open mouthed, needy. 

Thomas rubs his fingertip over that sweet spot, gets John needy, gets him trembling, gets him aching for more. Slowly presses a second finger in, sweet stretch and that wonderful sensation of being filled. Thomas strokes his fingers inside John, again and again until John is panting into his neck, cock dripping onto Thomas’ belly. His hips roll needy little circles, cock dragging against Thomas’ cock, heat and liquid and burning up inside from want. 

“Thomas,” John moans his name into the soft skin of his neck. Punctuates it with a kiss. “Please, I wanna ride your cock.”

Thomas moans softly in response. Spreads his fingers inside John, stretching, teasing. 

“Thomas, now. I’m ready. Please,” John nips at Thomas’ neck, fingers tightening in his hair. 

Thomas huffs a little laugh. 

“So impatient,” he teases, but he pulls his fingers carefully out and reaches for the condom. 

John sits up, and shifts back. He takes the condom from Thomas and rolls it down on to Thomas’ cock, fingers tight around the hard length. He loves the way Thomas’ hips cant up into the slow touch, the way his eyes flutter closed for half a second. 

John shifts back up, knees on either side of Thomas’ hips. He lowers himself down until the head of Thomas’ cock nudges up against his rim, and he watches Thomas’ face as he sinks down onto him, slow inch by inch. 

“God, John, you feel incredible,” Thomas murmurs, hands going to John’s hips to rest lightly there. 

John lets his head fall back, relishes the exquisite feeling of being stretched and filled until Thomas’ cock is fully seated inside him. 

He pauses for a moment, just revels in the way it feels, in the fact that he gets to have this after all. It tastes so much sweeter than he’d ever imagined it would. 

Slowly, he lets his hips start to move, angles himself so that Thomas’ cock nudges up against that sweet spot inside with every single roll of John’s hips. 

He leans forward, hands planted on Thomas’ chest, and starts to ride him in earnest, head thrown back, curls spilling over one shoulder. 

Thomas strokes one hand to John’s cock, curls his long fingers around it and strokes him, tight and fast. 

“Thomas, Thomas,” John pants, mouth falling open, pleasure pooling like liquid heat in his belly. 

“God, John, look at you. You’re so beautiful. I’m so lucky,” Thomas murmurs, words warm, stoking that gold glow higher and higher. 

He could stay like this forever. Cradled in warmth and affection. Sober, and everything crystal clear and gold. Caught on the brink of orgasm, pleasure burning through his body. He can’t remember the last time he felt so present, so real without everything laced in pain. 

“Thomas, gonna-” John’s words turn into an open mouthed moan as he grinds down hard on Thomas’ cock, release slamming through him. He spills over Thomas’ hand in hot stripes, body clenching around Thomas’ cock, body lit up from head to toe with wave after wave of pleasure. 

Beneath him, Thomas groans loud, bucks up into him with John’s name on his lips. 

John rides out their orgasms, then shifts carefully off. He stretches out between Thomas’ body and the back of the couch, presses in close, buries his face in Thomas’ neck. 

Thomas tugs the throw blankets down over them. Strokes his fingers over John’s face. 

“You ok?” He asks softly. 

John nods against Thomas’ neck. Takes a steadying breath. Still can’t quite believe this is real, that something this good could happen for someone like him. That he deserves it. 

“You brought coffee over,” Thomas comments, hint of surprise in his voice that makes John want to turn himself inside out, over and over again, just to make sure Thomas is never surprised by something small and thoughtful, ever again. 

“It’s probably cold now,” John mumbles. Thinks wistfully of a hot cup of coffee right now, drank slow and lazy right here on the couch in Thomas’ arms. 

Smiles when he realizes that he can have that, over and over again, if that’s what he wants. 

“Mmm, true. Y’wanna go make more?” Thomas asks, teasing lilt to his voice. 

John laughs, and pulls back to look at Thomas, grinning. 

“Nope. It’s your turn to get up, I did all the work.” He sticks out his tongue, and laughs when Thomas rolls his eyes. 

“Fine, fine,” Thomas says, sounds put upon, but can’t keep the grin off his face. “In a little. This is nice.”

John lays his head back down, pillowed on Thomas’ chest. Can’t say that he disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahey! It's done!
> 
> This fic was supposed to be 6 chapters tops. RIP me. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading and commenting and screaming at me on tumblr (come be my friend: @ninyaaaaaaah). You are all the very best and I couldn't do it without your praise and encouragement!!! 
> 
> <3


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